


All Things Will Die, Nothing Will Die

by Holly Sykes (Artemis8147)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Experienced John, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Gothic, Grave Snatchers, Happy Ending, Historical References, Implied drug use (OC), Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Minor Character Death, No period-typical homophobia, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre Victorian London, Rimming, Romance, Soixante-Neuf, Top John Watson, True Love, Virgin Kink, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 109,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis8147/pseuds/Holly%20Sykes
Summary: Time: January, 1831Something suspicious is happening at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital: corpses are brought in and sold to the surgeons, but Sherlock Holmes suspects foul play.He’s not alone: at Guy’s Hospital, Doctor John Watson refuses to pay twelve guineas for a body that he fears has been tampered with.The lives of the two men collide one frosty winter night and from that moment on, they will never be torn asunder.A macabre AU story of grisly murders, passion, sex and mystery, with an unambiguous happy ending; inspired by the London Burkers crimes, by several short stories written around that period and by the book The Vampyre Family by Andrew McConnell Stott. Also, a very big help was the Italian Boy by Sarah Wise, which chronicles grave robberies in 1830's London.The characters belong to ACD and the BBC. The story is mine, so please do not post anywhere else without express permission.Note 27 Feb: I have re-posted the work with minor corrections to some of the chapters. If you have read it already, the more serious revisions start from chapter 19.Note 17 March: This work is now complete.





	1. The Stranger in the Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> Note: the title of the story is taken from two poems by Alfred Lord Tennyson which are contained in his collection 'Poems, Chiefly Lyrical' that was published in 1830.  
> Note 2: on 16th December 1830 London saw the last hanging for piracy at Execution Dock, Wapping.  
> Note 3: At the time, gentlemen showed their braces only to their lovers (or immediate family and servants). They never would have removed their waistcoat in polite company.  
> Note 4: The cocktail John refers to is the G&T, which was really invented as a concoction to cure malaria. The gin was added to make it more palatable.

_“Before Decay’s effacing fingers_

_Have swept the lines where beauty lingers”_

_A Picture of Death – from The Giaour by Lord Byron_

 

* * *

 

Pervaded by a Sabbath-like silence, the night was illuminated by a wan moon. The air was bitterly cold and even the stench that usually infested that area of London had been purged from the atmosphere by the crystalline fingers of the January winter.

Doctor John Watson was proceeding swiftly past St. Leonard’s and into the Hackney Road when he saw a faint, intermittent light coming from the graveyard at the back of the church.

He hesitated for a moment, stamping his feet to warm them up; the thin plume of his breath, smoke-like, evoked the image of a quiet evening spent by the fireside in the company of his pipe; the upturned collar of his heavy overcoat was an insufficient shield against the rigours of the weather, and so were his worn leather gloves and his top hat. He bridled at this newly acquired weakness: warmer climates had reduced his capacity to withstand harsher conditions and his body, still recovering from war injuries, was betraying him in a frustrating manner.

Not for him though to succumb to the tyranny of the flesh, not when there was a task to be performed; and at present, that meant finding out what sort of ruffian was disturbing the sanctity of a cemetery.

The iron gates were padlocked after sundown but he knew there was a gap in the railings through which a boy or slim man could easily pass.

John was muscular and fit, but he’d lost weight since his return to England, and therefore could sneak through the narrow passage.

Thankfully, he was accustomed to nights' vigils and his eyes could easily adapt to the darkness, as the disturbance that had caught his attention had ceased.

In a way that was typical of his frank, undissembling nature, he rejected stealth in favour of openly walking towards the clump of graves at the far end of the cemetery, where he calculated the light had shone from.

The pale moon did a sad job of illuminating the jutting angels, the carved stone slabs and the rounded urns: the sense of sadness and decay was accentuated by the withered hemlock and frozen nettles.

“Who is there? Show your face, sir!” he called out, and in the eerie quiet his voice echoed loud and silvery, like a newly minted coin.

He had anticipated a scuffle or perhaps the sound of a hasty retreat and was therefore startled when the bright light coming from a Carcel lamp blinded him temporarily. When he regained his sight, he was faced with a tall man in a black frock-coat: John’s first impression was of a haughty countenance, glittering eyes and an impudent mouth from which a stream of words were soon to be uttered in a most intoxicating baritone and a cut-glass accent.

“What do we have here?” the stranger drawled, edging closer with his oil lamp to inspect the doctor from top to toe. “Oh, I see… Ashanti war, you were there when McCarthy was defeated, you may even have been present at his decapitation; yes, I believe you were.” He circled round his befuddled victim, like an aristocratic bird of prey. “A physician, originally from Edinburgh, now established in London, Guy’s probably.” He examined John’s hands, removing his gloves with white, spidery fingers. “No longer married, not wearing your ring; infidelity, but not hers, yours, but such a terrible act that you no longer deem yourself worthy of a wedding band.” He hesitated and appeared almost shy for an instant. “Ah,” he stuttered, having reached what he evidently thought an embarrassing conclusion. “You, ahem, indulged in… ever since the new laws have been passed…”

“I’d rather not converse about my private life with a stranger,” John replied, without venom. The stranger was in fact a young man, little more than a boy, probably ten years younger than the doctor, and far more sophisticated. His attire spoke of money and taste; the black curls that adorned his brow declared that he was a trifle vain, but the muddy patent leather boots testified that he wouldn’t hesitate to join the fray, should it be worth his while.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the youth said, proffering his large hand, which John promptly shook with his gloveless one. “Did I get everything right?”

“John Watson,” he replied, unable to suppress a smile. “It was quite a marvellous display; rather astonishing, I’d say.”

“You really think so?” Sherlock asked, clearly incredulous.

“Why, of course! Your brilliance is a matter of fact.”

“Not according to most people.”

“Most people are fools.”

“Indeed,” the youth murmured.

A brief silence stretched between them, interrupted by the shiver that shook John’s frame.

“You will catch your death of cold. Come, there’s my hansom cab waiting at Bishopsgate,” Sherlock said, taking John by the arm and leading him towards the exit.

“But I wanted to,” the doctor started, but was immediately overruled.

“You wanted to ask me what I was doing in a graveyard late at night; yes, well, I will unfold my tale to you, but only when I can have your undivided attention.”

“I see,” John smirked. “It’s not just regard for my health then.”

“I’d rather not recount my adventures to a consumptive on his deathbed.”

“A tad melodramatic, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock sniffed, straightening to his full, considerable height.

The older man couldn’t help the laughter that rippled out of his chest.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, never that,” John replied, softly. “I have not had cause for mirth in a very long time.”

“Well, I’m glad to be of service.”

“I doubt it.”

They exchanged a glance and, unexpectedly, the younger man’s lips curved in a genuine smile that likened him to a street urchin.

“You seem to have understood quite a bit about me already.”

“I may not have your observational skills, but I have some experience of my fellow human beings.”

John had not meant that as a barb, but it did seem to affect Sherlock gravely: a fierce blush coloured his angular cheekbones and his plush lips trembled faintly.

“In this, you are surely my superior,” he murmured.

“’Tis nothing to be unduly proud of, my dear fellow; merely a question of age and distressing circumstances; a concurrence of demons and the daily grind. I wouldn’t wish this on you; not for anything.”

And again, that was the wrong thing to say, apparently.

“What, should I then be entombed like one of those marble statues and be condemned to eternal aloofness and indifference?” the youth asked, in acid tones.

“Not at all,” John replied, shaking his head. “You should only experience success and pleasure, lobsters and laughter.”

“A doctor and a poet,” Sherlock quipped, his self-confidence restored.

“Far from it,” the doctor chuckled.

The short walk ended in front of an elegant hansom cab, attached to a beautiful black horse with a mantle as shiny as the back of a beetle.

They sat side by side, their legs barely touching; immediately, Sherlock tucked a warm blanket over both their laps, and instructed the driver as to their destination.

“Is this really yours?” John enquired.

“In a matter of speaking; my elder sibling, a busybody of the highest order, gifted it to me. This way, he fancies he will be able to keep an eye on my whereabouts; what he didn’t know is that Billy, the driver, would become one of my most trusted allies. Or perhaps, he was aware of it, but there’s precious little he could do about it. Anyway, I expect you’d like to know my story.”

“Before you start, I’ll have you know that my lodgings are not far from here; you could leave me at London Bridge and I could…”

“Nonsense, my dear chap. Your cramped flat is no place for a man in your condition. I have a free room at my place and I think you may find it advantageous… but let me tell you and you will understand the reason of my offer.”

“Alright,” John acquiesced, refusing to be offended by the accuracy of Sherlock’s suppositions.

“First of all, you need to know that I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world. When the Metropolitan Police are in trouble, they ask for my help. When I say the Police, I mean Inspector Lestrade who, incidentally, is my brother’s _friend_.”

He grimaced at the thought and the older man smiled broadly.

“He’s not a bad sort, albeit not too intelligent; he wouldn’t be, what with tolerating Mycroft - that's my annoying sibling - and all.”

“Did you always want to be a detective?”

“When I was a child, I wanted to become a pirate,” the youth replied, eliciting a giggle from his companion.

“They just hanged two sailors for piracy; what, not even a month ago.”

“A barbarous occurrence, don’t you think?”

“Loathsome,” John agreed, shuddering, and this time not because of the temperature.

“You accepted to come with me even if you just met me; I could be a criminal.”

“Like you said, I was cold.”

“You are not the sort to let such trifles inform your decisions.”

“I was curious, too.”

Sherlock snorted.

“That I can believe,” he said. “As I said, I lend a metaphorical hand to Inspector Lestrade when he’s in a quandary, which includes partaking in the occasional cadaver dissection. Of late, I have had the opportunity to frequent St. Bartholomew’s and a fellow I know, one of the few I tolerate, informed me of a… spate of odd cadavers the morgue has been provided with. Obviously, after what happened in Edinburgh with Burke and Hare…”

“Incredible,” John exclaimed.

“Yes, I knew you’d say that. You have reached the same conclusion, I assume. And since this part of London is rife with ruffians and felons, it was only natural we’d both decide to seek the solution to our problem in the same environs.”

“How did you know about my profession?”

“Your attire, your hands, something about your demeanour; as for your part in the Ashanti war, your skin has not yet relinquished the colouring due to violent sun exposure; the way you carry yourself tells me you’ve been injured in your leg and shoulder and that the former has healed but the latter still bothers you intermittently; the faint line around your ring finger belies the absence of a wedding band and given your honourable character, you wouldn’t remove it unless a serious reason demanded it.”

“She’s dead; my wife, I mean. She caught typhoid fever. It was quite sudden: one day she was feeling a chill and the next she was gone.”

The detective hissed, hitting his fist against the side of the carriage.

“I always miss something,” he exclaimed.

“Most of your assumptions were correct, even though I would prefer not to discuss them in detail,” John replied, gazing out into the night.

“Obviously,” the detective concurred, severing the infinitesimal contact between his thigh and the other man’s. “I guess you too were offered a suspicious cadaver?”

“Asked to pay twelve guineas for it, to add insult to injury; I suspected a gang of body snatchers and decided to make my way to Nova Scotia Gardens, a notorious spot where such a heinous practice would most likely occur. It was then that I saw the flicker of your lamp.”

“And you thought you witnessed foul play.”

“Grave robbing is a terrible thing,” John stated.

“It is but a minor crime, for once the soul has departed from the body, why would one care about a lump of non sentient flesh? I know I wouldn’t.”

“Your lover certainly would. Your body would be the most precious of his possessions, even after your last breath had left your lips.”

John gazed intently into the young man’s eyes and the latter blinked and blushed like a maiden caught with her skirt up her calves.

“I don’t have a lover,” he whispered, after a while.

“An intimate friend,” the older man suggested.

“I’m devoted to my work,” Sherlock replied, with a tone that indicated finality.

They spent the rest of the drive each immersed in his thoughts: John reproaching himself for his curiosity and the detective trying to understand why he was upset when there was no apparent reason to be anything but reasonably cheerful.

At last, they reached their destination which was a modest building in the proximity of Marylebone.

“221b Baker Street,” Sherlock recited in a proud tone. “Come upstairs, Doctor Watson. Hopefully, Mrs Hudson will have some refreshments ready for us. She’s my housekeeper, but for some undisclosed reason she rejects the appellation.”

John was led into a spacious drawing room with a cavernous fireplace on whose mantelpiece reposed a skull and the miniature of a frigate inside a glass bottle.

There were two comfortable armchairs and a commodious divan, a mahogany desk littered with papers, a wing-back chair and a low table on which a pile of books was as perilously leaning as the Tower of Pisa. On the carpeted floor, by the window, was a collection of what turned out to be New Monthly Magazine issues.

“It looks cosy,” the doctor said, while Sherlock hastened to create some order out of that chaos.

“I didn’t expect company,” he explained. “Please sit down, make yourself at home. I will go see whether the tea is ready.”

The words sounded absurd to his own years, unused as he was to having guests and caring about their entertainment.

In the kitchen, he found a fresh pot of tea and a covered tray underneath which were a dozen buttered scones.

“Would this be satisfactory?” he asked, as he produced his loot in the smug manner of a magician drawing a rabbit from his hat.

“Perfect,” John replied, smiling. He’d removed his overcoat and unbuttoned his jacket. His waistcoat revealed a plain front shirt with a medium collar and a simple black cravat. Sherlock’s own frilly shirt, high starched collar and extravagantly elaborate neck-cloth seemed positively dandified in comparison. The detective felt unbidden shame at this, and hurried towards his private rooms.

“Pour the tea, if you don’t mind,” he urged with a wave of his elegant hand, as he disappeared beyond a door.

John picked up a book, which was a new edition of Tennyson’s poems. He leafed through it, smiling softly as he thought of the detective reciting verses in that delightful yet cutting baritone.

The smile froze on his lips when his gaze lit upon the scarcely clad figure of his host: Sherlock had removed everything except for his tight, high-waisted trousers, his white flouncy shirt and his finely embroidered braces. The cravat had been discarded and since the collar was unbuttoned, the immaculate length of his swan-like throat was in full display. On top of that, his hair, freed from the confines of the hat, had tumbled down on his forehead in a veritable mass of wild ebony curls.

John lost all the breath from his lungs while all the blood migrated from his upper to his nether regions: after his wife’s death, and the various entanglements that had occurred while he was away on the Gold Coast, he’d not had any carnal relationship; and even then, none with such a paragon of refinement and beauty.

“I thought you said you were devoted to your work,” he croaked.

“Why, yes, but what does that have to do with,” the youth started, only to stop dead as he realised his faux pas.

“Excuse me,” he said and, heart in mouth, he ran back to his rooms and returned enveloped in a blue dressing gown.

“May I offer you some sherry or gin, perhaps?” he asked, still a bit breathless.

“Gin would be a godsend,” John replied, adding – with a mischievous air, “You know, if you had a dose of quinine with added sugar and water, it would make for a rather interesting concoction.”

“Who says I don’t have quinine?” the detective smirked, opening a drawer and extracting a stoppered glass flagon.

“What else do you keep hidden inside that cabinet of yours?”

Sherlock winked and lowered his voice.

“I’m not sure you’d appreciate the answer to that question, my dear Doctor Watson.”

“I probably wouldn’t, but please call me John.”

“Yes, right,” the youth stuttered and, tying the sash of his dressing gown a little tighter, he bit his lip, undecided on how to proceed.

“I was only jesting. Gin and water would be more than agreeable,” John reassured him.

After a few sips of their drinks, and with the added warmth conferred by the fire, their jagged edges had been smoothed and polished, and an atmosphere of companionship had replaced the uneasiness that had clouded their initial exchanges.

“It is a fine place you have here, Mr Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock,” the blond man repeated, tasting the name in his mouth like a fine wine.

“As I mentioned, there is an empty room and with a criminal, or more probably a gang of murderers on the loose, I would need an assistant… someone with a knowledge of anatomy, a physician with a vast experience… a man of integrity and courage… even Stamford said…” the detective explained, the words tumbling out of his mouth like fountain jets.

“Stamford? You mean, Mike Stamford?” John enquired, puzzled.

“Yes indeed: pot-bellied, pink-faced, disgustingly cheerful Doctor Mike Stamford. I should have imagined he was a friend of yours.”

“That doesn’t sound very flattering,” the doctor replied, feigning offence.

 _And that’s where you are abysmally wrong_ , Sherlock thought, his whole body tingling with suppressed elation, down to the core of his very being. A feverish sensation the likes of which he’d never felt before inflamed his veins and troubled his heart.

And yet, despite all this, he asked again,

“Will you accept my offer and share my humble lodgings?” he said, and his heart almost stopped as he waited for the reply.

“I could never say no to danger; why start tonight?” John replied, and raising the glass to his lips, he downed the rest of his gin in one defiant gulp.

 


	2. Quid-pro-Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to take a bath, but can anyone truly do that in peace with Sherlock around?  
> In short, the boys get to know each other a little bit more.  
> Let me make it clear that John has a slight virginity kink and Sherlock dearly loves a man in uniform (even a metaphorical one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A mortsafe was an iron cage that surrounded the coffin, to prevent grave-snatching  
> Note 2: Scotland Yard was known at the time only as the Metropolitan police, but as the site of their operations was behind Whitehall in Scotland Yard, they soon began to be known as that instead. I will call it Scotland Yard because I'm the writer and I say so. :)  
> Note 3: Regency people frequently took baths while wearing a sort of nightdress or shift, supposedly in order to be presentable when they entertained visitors. Which they did, apparently. They also used padding for shoulder, hips and calves. And stays, when they were a bit overweight.

_“They bring the body, and we pay the price,' he used to say, dwelling on the alliteration - 'QUID PRO QUO.' And, again, and somewhat profanely, 'Ask no questions,' he would tell his assistants, 'for conscience' sake.”_

_The Body Snatcher (excerpt) – Robert Louis Stevenson_

* * *

 

A zinc bathtub with running water placed in the middle of a private room with no screens or pitchers was a luxury unheard of in John Watson’s life.

Hygiene was of paramount importance to him, thus he spent a vast amount of his spare time carrying freshly boiled water from one part to the other of his rooms, consuming hours that could have been put to a more profitable use.

He sighed and leaned back against the wood cladding, allowing his mind to drift aimlessly; well, not so aimlessly, if he was honest.

The transparent Pears soap bar he held in his hand, with its flowery scent, reminded him of Sherlock’s neck-cloth, which had been made of silvery grey silk speckled with lilac filigree.

Elegant and eccentric, just like the man who wore it.

Even more than the youth’s attire and his considerable beauty, it was his personality that intrigued him the most: a quick-silver mind, a noble deportment and a brave disposition could not disguise Sherlock’s ignorance of social mores and his evident unwordliness in heart and pleasure matters alike.

John had calculated his age at no more than twenty, but he suspected a chasm between the youth’s maturity of mind and the greenness of his emotional and physical experience.

“A virgin,” he whispered, reverently. The mere word was sufficient to arouse him, accompanied as it was by the vision of an unbuttoned collar and a long white neck framed by raven curls.

He shook his head, ashamed and amused at the flowering of his imagination, like that of a wistful maiden.

A noise and a cry almost had him darting from the tub, but immediately afterwards silence was restored. He wondered what the commotion had been, but didn’t want to inconvenience his host, who might have habits he didn’t wish anyone to intrude upon.

The interruption shook John out of his erotic daydream, but his body was not as quick in its response. He pondered whether to act or wait until his arousal subsided, and opted for the latter, as it didn’t seem right to seek carnal pleasure while in close proximity to the object of his desire. Not that he thought of Sherlock as an object, far from it.

“Cadavers,” he said, out loud, trying to force his mind onto a more sombre path, and at last, he succeeded.

 

The cry had come from Sherlock’s lodgings, where the detective was preparing for the night.

“Hell afire!” he shouted, throwing the soap into the basin and causing a tide of water to splash out onto the dresser. The azure chemise he was wearing fluttered behind him as he paced the room in a frenzy of despondency.

A look at his pale, emaciated and hairless torso had produced a fit of self-disgust that had pierced straight through his seldom-used heart.

“What is the matter with me?” he mumbled, kicking his discarded stockings out of the way.

A widowed physician wounded in the war and a decade older than Sherlock could not be allowed to come between him and his precious work, certainly not after such a short acquaintance. “Or ever!” he stated, catching his outraged gaze in the mirror.

John had stared at him when he’d made his entrance into the sitting room in déshabillé like a savage who’d never been introduced into proper society.

“In my own home, after all,” he muttered, shaking his head violently so that his curls bounced about like uncoiled springs.

He imagined Mycroft’s eloquent expression once he’d found out about the new Baker Street resident; he’d frequently suggested Sherlock should acquire a companion to help him and keep him out of trouble, but the detective had always understood what his sibling really intended: a partner, in every sense of the word.

The youth grimaced, crumpling his nose as if scenting a foul smell.

“Even the thought that I could find an equivalent of Lestrade,” he shivered and glanced again at the protruding ribs in his upper chest. A fleeting image of shoulder and hip's padding crossed his mind like a malevolent vessel: he’d always refused to wear anything to enhance his slender figure, but he wondered, for an instant, whether his tailor would, perhaps... “Absolutely not!” he cried, stamping his foot on the Axminster rug.

Aware that he was fast descending into one of his black moods, he seized the linen flannel and proceeded to pat himself dry with brisk efficiency.

The work came first and foremost, and for this particular case, Sherlock knew that he needed the help of a physician. He’d even toyed with the idea of asking Stamford only to decide against it because of the man’s obvious unsuitability. The man he wanted had to be strong of body, quick of mind and ready to act on impulse and even kill, if required. The detective was certain that John fulfilled all these requirements: he’d said himself that he’d never run from danger. And he’d accepted Sherlock’s offer despite the odd circumstances of their meeting.

John Watson was the right man at the right time, and he would prove invaluable, of that Sherlock was sure.

And the case was fascinating: a gang of murderous resurrectionists operating all over London, but guided by a superior mind; a mind which had planned every step of that criminal endeavour and thus would be devilishly difficult to unmask and eradicate.

He had been suspecting something was amiss ever since the Burke affair in Edinburgh; an imitator, he had thought at first; someone who enjoyed walking the tightrope, risking capture, public hanging and post-mortem dissection. Initially, those considerations had led him in the predictable direction – a student of anatomy or a beggar whose dire straits had overcome their conscience.

And certainly that sort of creatures might constitute the brawn but what about the brain? No, that was a different matter.

The identity of the corpses was naturally anonymous, but he and Mike had examined a couple whose bodily characteristics did not speak of privations or of a lowly lineage, but quite the opposite: one was a fellow of substance with a portly figure and clean fingernails; another a young lady with diminutive feet and hands and a mass of blonde wavy hair still dusted with scented powder. Those were neither felons nor unburied paupers; there was not the slightest doubt about that.

The bodies had been taken in by the dissecting rooms’ porter, a lad named Jack: he was a quick-witted urchin the morgue employed to cart cadavers and organs about the place.

The boy wasn’t dishonest per se, but his code of honour was of the quid-pro-quo kind: he would never betray his employers or embezzle their money - entrusted to him to pay for the cadavers – but he would not look too closely at what he was offered and certainly wouldn’t think twice about questioning a rich ‘haul’ even if it came from an unreliable source. In addition to that, it was well known that Jack slept in the bowels of the morgue; his routine was well publicised and it would easy for the habitual body snatcher to know when to make the drop with the least risk of a more thorough interrogation. Gold exchanged hands, a corpse was produced, still enveloped in sack-cloth and that would be the end of the transaction; it usually happened in the early hours of the morning, when the lad was still tightly embraced by slumber and his eyes not yet fully opened.

Sherlock had tried to catch the blackguards unawares, but they had defied his attempts, probably diverting the fruits of their efforts to another hospital; only then had the detective been sure that a cunning mind was behind the entire operation and his curiosity had increased, becoming almost an obsession. It had also become clear to him that money wasn’t the sole motivator, perhaps not even the main one.

Thankfully, his personal wealth allowed him to satisfy these cravings, but he wondered how John could be prevailed upon to accept a stipend when no client was in sight and thus no recompense would be forthcoming.

He could fib and invent a commission; his conscience, much like Jack’s, wouldn’t feel the minutest twinge of guilt, but he felt sure that John would see right through him, and while he would probably forgive impulsivity and even a dash of madness, Sherlock was convinced that a barefaced lie would not be taken as lightly.

From experience, he knew that he would not be able to rest unless he clarified the situation at once; he had plans for the morning: Billy would have to be sent to Guy’s to inform them about John’s absence, the doctor’s possessions would have to be packed and moved to Baker Street and, these trifles aside, there was the more important matter of hunting down the grave-robbing ruffians.

He stalked out in the direction of the wash-room.

“Are you in there?” he shouted.

“Yes, almost done,” a flustered voice replied.

“May I come in?”

“Let me just…”

Sherlock heard the sound of sloshing water and of hurried steps.

“You may enter,” John called out.

The detective opened the door like a gust of wind, but despite his pretend nonchalance, his gaze was pinned to the varnished wooden floor.

“I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable; it’s not my intention; not at all my intention; I wasn’t sure you would be… I mean, I have heard it said that people entertain company while in their bath, but then again if Marat had been wise and gone about his ablutions in solitude perhaps... but what a ridiculous ending for a man of his stature; not that it was _actual_ stature, for I seem to remember he was not a tall man…”

“Is there anything you wish to tell me or did you want to lecture me on the French revolution?” John asked, and there was definite mirth in his tone.

When Sherlock finally looked the man in the eye, he took in the rosy skin, the wet blond hair and dark blue eyes and once again was stunned into silence. He ventured a glance past the man’s neck and saw that he was wearing the cotton shift that Sherlock had lent him. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and willed his brain to reprise his normal activity.

“I wanted to inform you that my investigation is not for the benefit of a client as such, not yet at least; it is not infrequent that in the course of a case,” he explained, trying to suppress his tendency to spill out the entire contents of his mind.

“You are worried about money; that I will relinquish my occupation and won’t receive any sort of compensation from you. Don’t fret; I have enough put aside for the bad times; I’m not out at the elbows, dear fellow. And, yes, before you rattle off your deductions about my garments and the like, it’s true that I am not of your class, but that does not mean that I’m for the workhouse. I don’t need a quid-pro-quo, if that’s what you are asking.”

“I don’t ‘rattle off’,” the young man protested.

“Oh yes, you do. I don’t mind; in fact, I quite like it. Now, if you don’t have any more titbits about murdered Jacobins to impart, I’d love to go to my room. It’s been a long day and I predict tomorrow will be even more eventful. And you need a rest, too.”

The detective sniffed.

“You never asked what I was doing in that graveyard; and as for resting, my mind is all that I care about; my body is little more than an afterthought.”

John erupted in a fit of boyish laughter.

“The frills of your shirt and the filigree of your neck-cloth beg to differ,” he chuckled.

Sherlock would have been offended if he hadn’t been secretly pleased.

“Tomorrow you’ll tell me all about the graveyard; it is something to look forward to,” the doctor said and, patting the detective’s arm in a friendly manner, he walked out of the wash-room.

Astonished and - even if he was loathe to admit it - exceedingly pleased, Sherlock went back to his ablutions, but this time seeing his reflection in the mirror did not produce any adverse reaction.

 

The following morning was grey and foggy, but thankfully the soup wasn’t as thick as to prevent seeing the other side of the street. In days like those, venturing outside was dispiriting even for someone as indifferent to meteorology as Sherlock; his observational skills were dramatically reduced when all there was to contemplate was a blanket of nothingness.

John found the detective deep in the study of a London map. In front of him, on the dining room table, was an untouched cup of tea and a platter or eggs and bacon.

“Good morning, my friend,” John greeted him, but received only a nod by way of reply. Unfazed, he sat down and served himself a generous portion of food; after pouring the tea, he was about to commence his breakfast when the younger man addressed him.

“What’s the name of your anatomy rooms’ porter?”

“Daniel,” the doctor replied promptly. He decided that he’d better eat until he had the chance, and that the conversation would have to proceed regardless.

“Does he usually leave the hamper unguarded outside the precincts of the Hospital?”

“It’s what they all do, isn’t it?”

“A lamentable practice, in my opinion; I have spoken to Stamford about it, but he ignored my suggestions.”

John smiled, thinking of his friend’s deceptively amiable disposition which in fact hid a rather unwieldy strain of stubbornness.

“I don’t have to tell you how difficult it is for my colleagues to come by a reasonable amount of Subjects for dissection; I don’t teach anatomy, but as a surgeon, I’m often in need of organs to study diseases and causes of death; it is a constant battle and one which is never won by complete and utter honesty.”

“Last night I went to the cemetery to lay a trap for the scoundrels; I knew of a gentleman who had just been buried and was sure the lifters would have seized their chance.”

“Was there a mortsafe around the coffin, perhaps?”

“No mortsafe.”

“They may have acted after we left.”

“I doubt it; the coffin was empty, I’m sure of it.”

John nearly dropped fork and knife.

“What? I didn’t see…”

“Ah,” Sherlock exclaimed, rising to his feet and looming over his companion. “It’s because you don’t observe. You were too taken with me to look around you. What did you _see_?”

The blond man felt as he was being skewered by those gimlet eyes. He should have been angered, but he only wanted to not disappoint the detective.

“The graves, a few crumbling angels, frosted grass, hemlock I think,”

“Yes, and what else?” pressed Sherlock.

“Your boots were muddy, but the ground has been frozen for days. And it did not rain a drop since, when, November?”

“Precisely!” the detective exclaimed, jumping on the spot. “The ground had been tampered with and not only by the gravediggers. There were clear signs that the coffin had been prised open probably with a bradawl.”

“What? And why haven’t you informed your police friend?”

“He’s not my friend!” the youth bristled. “If we allow the police to be involved this early in the investigation, the gang will simply scatter and move their sordid business to another part of the city or even of the country.”

“And what about the poor gentleman?” John insisted.

“He wasn’t really a gentleman; he was only a glass-blower.”

“If you put it like that, I’m _only_ a physician. Unlike you, I haven’t been to Oxford,” the doctor chided, a dark flame blooming in his eyes.

“Cambridge,” said Sherlock, “And please forgive my bluntness. What I really meant to say is that we’d serve his cause better by hunting down the snatchers who did it.”

“You really like chasing criminals, don’t you?” John asked, somewhat mollified.

“Why, of course! There’s nothing like the scent of danger emanating from a dark, squalid alley as I run to grab hold of the scurrying rat who tries to evade capture.”

The doctor chuckled happily.

“I can see how your brother may be worried; you are the sort that relishes trouble.”

“And you are not?”

They smiled at each other for a long while, before the youth felt a soft blush creep up his throat. He thanked every existing deity that he’d worn a large neck-cloth and, tugging at it, he turned to face the windows.

“Billy has gone to inform Guy’s of your leave of absence; he will soon be back, but before he takes you to your lodgings,”

“There’s no hurry, it can be done at the close of day. I’m rather eager to start chasing criminals myself.”

“That too will have to wait; the Fortune of War will be our first port of call.”

“And even before that, you will have a bite to eat. I won’t have you running around on an empty stomach!”

Sherlock's eyes widened, in mock-surprise.

“ _You_ won’t have me?”

“I’m a doctor, remember? Better do as I say, or there will be hell to pay!” John replied and, pointing at the eggs and bacon with soldierly determination, he stared at the young man, until the latter sat down and, with a surly expression on his flushed face, proceeded to have his first full breakfast in weeks.


	3. The Image Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation starts and Sherlock encounters John's weapons...  
> The flirting also starts, and soon will earn its rating, so if you do not like men going at it, better look away now..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Cantabrigian = a Cambridge alumnus  
> Note 2: The essay that I attribute to Sherlock belongs in fact to Arthur Hallam, Tennyson's best friend at Cambridge.  
> Note 3: Sturbon was slang of the time for prison  
> Note 4: Snotter-haulers (of Dickensian fame) were kids robbing people of their silk handkerchiefs to sell them in Field Lane.

_“WHOE'ER has trudged, on frequent feet,_

_From Charing Cross to Ludgate-street,_

_That haunt of noise and wrangle,_

_Has seen, on journeying through the Strand,_

_A foreign Image-vender stand Near Somerset quadrangle._

_His coal-black eye, his balanced walk, His sable apron, white with chalk,_

_His listless meditation,_

_His curly locks, his sallow cheeks, His board of celebrated Greeks,_

_Proclaim his trade and nation.”_

_The Image Boy – Anonymous – The New Monthly Magazine  January 1829_

 

* * *

 

“I trust you did not meet with any trouble at Guy’s,” John said to Billy.

He had not really paid attention to the boy the night before, distracted as he had been by Sherlock’s peculiar charms. A short, lean slip of a boy, he had round grey eyes, a shock of carrot-red hair and a sprinkle of freckles on his button nose. At first sight, he seemed the picture of juvenile innocence, but if one stared a little longer, one would notice the twinkle in his eye, the deftness of his hands – manly-looking, at odds with the rest of him – and the resilience of his whipcord-clad body.

The lad nodded, but didn’t utter a word.

“He’s a mute,” Sherlock explained, as they sat down inside the carriage.

“Poor boy… should I learn some signs for communicating?”

“He’s not deaf, John.”

“Thank heavens, as I am not particularly versed at continental gesturing.”

“I regret not having lied to you then; I would have much enjoyed watching you try.”

“I don’t mind making a fool of myself now and then, but what I do not abide is being lied to.”

Sherlock mentally congratulated himself on having guessed as much the night before, but for once he did not boast about it openly.

“I gave Billy a letter to consign to the porter; they are shrewd creatures, and always know what the best course of action is.”

“I gather your boy is also a clever one; he wouldn’t be with you otherwise.”

“He’s invaluable and the fact he can’t speak does make him even more of a prize. I hate nonsensical babbling.”

“As long as he can listen to it instead,” John quipped, eliciting a glare from his companion.

“Are you implying that I speak nonsense?”

“Upon my honour, I am not! But every man of talent needs an audience, whether he is a poet or a genius.”

“I could never be a poet.”

“Yet you read poetry. I saw a volume of it in your drawing room.”

“Tennyson? Oh, it’s my contribution to help a fellow Cantabrigian. He and his clique invited me to join the Apostles, but I couldn’t belong to any confraternity which asks of his members to write ghost stories as part of its induction ritual. Besides, the man used to stalk around the place in a floppy wide-brimmed hat and a Spanish cloak,” he explained, with a moue of distaste.

John took one look at Sherlock’s long, black cape and at his extravagantly oversized hat and grinned.

“Indeed,” he replied. “And what did you write instead?”

“Oh, nothing of real consequence; it was merely a paper on whether the existence of an intelligent First Cause is deducible from the phenomena of the universe.”

“What was your conclusion?”

“I won’t bore you with the ebb and thrust of my reasoning, but I am a man of science, so I believe that whatever the cause, it can hardly be of a divine nature. I hope I am not shocking you,” the detective replied, clearly wishing to do just that.

“I’m not this easy to shock. After what I have seen on the Gold Coast, the savage anger of men and their superstitions, I have very little religion left in me, if any at all.”

“The original landlord of the public house we are about to visit had also been in a war and lost his legs and one arm there; the Fortune of War name was a sarcastic reminder of his misfortune. Before that, the tavern was called the Naked Boy.”

“Did the previous publican – a sweet-skinned Apollo perchance- use to serve his customers in the nude?” suggested John, laughter lighting up his face.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

“No, it is because of the naked cherub – the Golden Boy – placed at Pye Corner as a reminder of the London Fire.”

“Pity, I like my story a lot better. Is that the pub close to Barts? I must have gone there once or twice.”

“Yes, the very one; I know that snatchers congregate there, and wish to see whether we can extract any information from the publican.”

“He’ll hardly want to imperil his trade by letting you on his customers’ secrets.”

“His lies will tell me as much as his truths. Besides, there is always some urchin in need of money willing to provide information.”

John clicked his tongue.

“And what will happen to this imaginary boy once his betrayal is discovered? These scoundrels won’t hesitate to kill him and sell his corpse for gain; even his teeth and hair will become fair game.”

Sherlock felt like he’d been dealt a sudden blow.

“Don’t think me heartless,” he said, “I would never put anyone in danger, not willingly at least; but some of these children are more used to the ways of the street than you or I.”

“That’s because they’ve never known any different. All they have to look forward to is a life of crime and depravity.”

“That’s why I employ them from time to time: to give them a few guineas and a sense of purpose,” the detective replied.

The truth was he’d never considered the living arrangements of the lads he sometimes tipped for a spot of sleuthing: he found them shrewd, agile and unafraid; in many occasions, it was them who approached him and demanded money in exchange for information. He’d never taken advantage of them, but now he shivered at the thought they might be beaten up and abused in unspeakable ways by men even older than him.

John must have read his thoughts, because his expression softened and he said:

“I don’t doubt your good faith.”

“Mycroft works for the Ministry and has the ear of Viscount Melbourne. I know for certain that significant reforms are under way; conditions may soon improve.”

The older man smiled brightly.

“A revolutionary in disguise, a veritable Byron in modern garb, that’s what you are.”

“Oh, please! Everybody knows Byron was short and portly,” Sherlock bridled, trying to suppress his intense rapture at the comparison.

 

In the meantime, they had arrived at their destination: as John remembered, it was a greyish four-storey building of which the pub occupied the ground and first floors. The cherub surveyed the proceedings, a pensive expression on his chubby face.

There were but two steps from the door to the main parlour; a wide oak staircase landed almost in the street; there was room for a crimson rug and nothing more between the threshold and the last round of the descent; this little space was brilliantly lit up, not only by the light upon the stair and the great signal-lamp below the sign, but by the warm radiance of the bar-room window. The Fortune of War thus brightly advertised itself to passers-by.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the cacophony of voices; as soon as they entered, the noise died down and an unnatural hush descended on the crowd; it lasted only a few instants, but it gave both men a sense of their extraneousness.

“Perhaps we should have worn a disguise,” John murmured.

“Not in this instance; this is precisely the effect I wanted to create. Our presence will rattle a few cages,” Sherlock replied, as he strode in, head held high and swirling cape.

The barman was a burly man with a shiny bald head and the cruel countenance of a butcher: his moustache was florid to compensate for the lack of hair elsewhere and his forearms as big and muscled as John’s calves.

He was drying the pewter mugs with a large cloth and a ferocious disposition.

“What will you have?” he asked, roughly.

“Two pints of ale,” the blond man replied, placing two coins on the counter.

“Quite a few smock-frocks in here,” the detective observed, inspecting the hazy room.

“What’s it to you, Sir?”

“I wonder whether you still allow body snatchers to store their ungodly haul in your establishment, Sir,” Sherlock queried in a tone loud enough to be heard above the din.

“That would be against the law,” the man replied, through clenched teeth.

“Yes, it would.”

“You won’t find anything amiss in here, Sir. I would drink my ale and find a more appropriate location for my fancy frills, if I was you.”

“Are you threatening us?” John asked, quietly sipping his beer.

The bald man threw him a look filled with contempt and a lascivious inference which wasn’t lost on the ex-soldier.

“You struck gold with that one,” he muttered, winking. “Rich, pretty and has never been touched, I bet. I wouldn’t mind giving him a try, now that it’s no longer _against the law_. Looks like he badly needs a stiff rod to stopper his gob.”

John could feel his heart booming in his ears; his first instinct had been to throttle the horrible creature, but he knew he couldn’t ruin Sherlock’s investigation for him.

“Listen to me, you slimy toad: you lay a finger on or say another filthy word about this gentleman and I will make sure there shall be no more rods to speak of, let alone a stiff one. I am a surgeon by profession and we are always short of corpses to anatomise. But I don’t need to tell you, do I? You must have seen your fill of them, and know that for a few guineas any of your customers here will be more than willing to give me a helping hand. Now shut up and let us enjoy our drinks.”

A pulsing vein throbbed in the barman’s temple, his bloated face reddened and his eyes burned with wrath, but he remained silent.

When John turned to look at his young companion, he found that Sherlock had vacated the seat next to him and moved to a bench by the front window.

He went to join him and the detective’s placid countenance annoyed rather than placated him.

“Well done, my friend,” Sherlock said, sipping his beer with a caution born of dislike, “he will not forget your likeness nor will he fail to exact his revenge, should he get the chance.”

“He insulted you in the vilest of terms,” the doctor replied, trying to keep his voice down.

“Yes, I knew he would. To a man of his sort, my kind is like a red rag to a bull.”

“I’m afraid I do not fully comprehend or approve of your methods.”

Sherlock smiled obliquely.

“It does follow as the night the day: first, admiration then disapproval and finally revulsion.”

Before John could reply, a man sitting in the bench next to them intervened.

“Henry Lock is all bluster and no action,” he whispered in their direction.

It was a small man of middle age with a hunched back, wearing an old camlet coat and a worn Wellington hat; he was nursing a rum-hot and reading the Morning Post.

“You are a regular customer, working nearby I assume; a porter, perhaps,” Sherlock said, observing the man closely.

“At the Cross Keys Inn in Cheapside; how do you know?” the latter said, suddenly suspicious.

“Just a fortunate guess,” the detective replied, the picture of unquestionable innocence.

“Name’s Wigley; I wouldn’t waste my time here, if I was you.” He caught John’s defiant gaze and hastened to clarify the gist of his statement. “The place has become too hot too handle. Many a snatcher has ended up in the sturbon. All them smock-frocks you see ‘round here are regulars, but them dangerous ones do not set foot in the Fortune no more. Summat must have given them a bad turn.”

“And when was the turning point, in your humble opinion?”

“What?”

“What did give them a bad turn?” clarified John.

The man sipped his toddy and darted a quick look around the tavern.

“I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn, but in your shoes, I’d go to the Birdcage in Shoreditch. Them lifters all come from round there.”

“Very much obliged, I’m sure. Come on, John,” Sherlock said, folding the Morning Post he’d pretended to peruse and placing a sovereign between two pages.

They left the smoky room and as they approached their hansom cab, they saw that Billy was in the company of another boy of about twelve. They were deep in conversation: the former nodding and drawing things with his fingers on his own thigh, the latter chattering loudly in between sucking on a Meerschaum pipe.

When Billy indicated them, the stranger jumped off the driver’s seat and proffered a small, dirty hand to be shaken. Without a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock removed the silk handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and handed it to the boy, who took it with a curtsy and a toothy grin.

“Tom Trader, Sir, at your service. Your boy here is not much of talker, but I got the long and the short of it: you looking for them body-grabbers aren’t you?”

“Maybe, but not the common sort of exhumators,” the detective replied, studying the boy’s sallow face, his meagre chest and his coal-black eyes.

“I have seen them try to hire a chariot. Took ‘em a while to find one to take ‘em south of the River. Past the Kingsland Road it ain’t a cheap journey and not many want to do it. They did get one in the end, and someone could have writ down the licence number, if one had been quick-witted enough.”

“Who would ‘them’ be and would ‘them’ perhaps be missing a Meerschaum pipe?”

Tom’s face crumpled and he seemed on the verge of tears, but quick as lightning, his expression changed to sincere admiration.

“You may be a nob, but you ain’t half slow. I did not see their faces; they were all covered up, like monks, if you get my drift. Two men: as old as your friend here – no offence meant, Sir – or even older. Tall, not like you, Sir, but not as short as – sorry again, Sir… I caught up with ‘em at Farringdon and, as they shoved the Thing onto the chariot, one dropped his pipe. I’ll swear it in front of the magistrate at the Unicorn, I will.”

“Yes, yes, kindly proceed,” Sherlock said, trying to contain his mirth.

“That seem strange-like, them being masked like that; and I says to myself: Tom, better make sure you take that number, just in case they call you to testify.”

“Could we please give it to us?” John asked.

The boy approached him and with a deft sleight of hand, he produced a filthy scrap of paper with a scribble on it. It was barely legible and faded. Sherlock looked at it and committed it to memory.

“Here is your recompense; and see that you keep out of danger,” he said, handing him a guinea. “But, I would prefer if you’d return John his handkerchief.”

Once again, the boy pretended to be incensed only to surrender to laughter.

“Fair’s fair,” he declared, and taking a puff on his pipe, he dangled the square of white cotton cloth in front of the doctor’s face.

“You deserve to keep it,” the latter said, astonished. “I did not even feel you taking it.”

“That’s my trade, Sir. I wouldn’t be much of a snotter-hauler otherwise.”

He then gazed at Sherlock and asked for his name. At the detective’s reply, he pondered for a while, pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes. It’s a good name… one day I may have to use it. I will make an image of you, to remind me of your likeness.”

“An image?” asked John.

“I make figurines in wax and plaster, sometimes. I will see you, Sir. And you, Sir: thanks for letting me keep your wiper,” he said, and in the next moment, he had disappeared into the fog.

 

“I suppose you own a pistol. I think we should go to your lodgings and get your things presently,” Sherlock declared, as they mounted inside the cab.

“Yes, of course I do: a regimental pistol and a flintlock tinder one.”

At the mention, the detective’s eye darkened perceptibly.

“Is that the one used to start fires?”

“Yes, don’t you have one yourself?”

“I use a tinderbox. I have never… I was thinking of purchasing one.”

“My gunsmith converted it from an ordinary one. You can have it, if you wish.”

“You don’t have to, but I’d love that, yes,” the young man mumbled.

“I assume you know how to shoot a pistol.”

“Of course not!” the detective exclaimed, flustered. “I’m a scientist not a soldier. Not that I disapprove of military men; I admire their bravery although it’s tinged with foolhardiness… and the regalia,” he cleared his throat and, red-faced, turned away from John’s amused gaze.

“I could show you, if you want.”

“I’d like that very much, thank you. I have dexterous fingers,” the young man said, biting his tongue soon after.

“As swift as Tom Trader's?” quipped John.

“Not quite, but my eye caught him in the act, while you didn’t feel the touch of his hand.”

“I’m not usually that inattentive; I must have been distracted by something.”

They smiled at one another, and spent the rest of the journey in companionable silence.

 

John’s lodgings were spartan, but meticulously clean and tidy. Nothing Sherlock observed suggested anything different to what he’d already guessed about his newfound companion.

What the detective had not calculated in the slightest was the extent of the effect the ex-soldier’s uniform would have on him.

Laid out on the modest bed, the bright red jacket with stiff blue collar and golden epaulettes and brass buttons was like a costume in a play of charades; it was nearly impossible to connect it with the man standing close to it.

“This is my past, but I do not wish to bury it just yet,” John said, and Sherlock could not take his eyes off it.

“Shall I bring you the tinder pistol?” he asked, and the detective nodded, distractedly.

The next thing the young man heard was his companion advising him to remove his cape and jacket.

“What?” Sherlock enquired, dazedly.

“I’d like to demonstrate how to handle it and you would move more freely without the encumbrance of outer garments.”

“Yes, of course.”

John brought the object in question and held out the handle, so that the detective could curl his fingers around it.

He filled the chamber with gunpowder, added the tinder and, standing close to Sherlock, he grabbed the youth’s arm at the elbow and ordered him to pull the trigger. A small conflagration happened and a flame was sparked, to which the detective faltered a little. His legs trembled more from excitement than the effect of the pistol.

“Sit down,” John intimated. “Let’s try again with the real pistol. No gunpowder, of course; just learn how to handle it.”

He opened a drawer of the sideboard and extracted a pistol similar to the tinder one, but without the hammer head.

“Here, let me show you,” he said, and sat down on the divan beside his friend.

The demonstration went on for a few minutes, after which John held him from behind to correct the position of his arm. When Sherlock pulled the trigger, he leaned back into him, and then the irreparable happened.

Faced with the combined assault of a delectable nape, the scent of cologne and a hint of clean sweat, John should not be blamed if he could not resist pressing a kiss to the skin in close proximity to his lips.

“Oh,” the detective said, and went utterly still.

“I’m very sorry; I don’t know what possessed me.”

“No, Yes, no, I mean, I didn’t dislike it,” the young man said in a strained voice; after that, he tilted his head to the side, offering more of his throat.

“Put the pistol down.”

“I like holding it my hand.”

“Hold it firmly then; don’t let it go.”

“I won’t.”

And thus, while Sherlock caressed the wooden handle with feverish fingers, his friend smeared his throat with kisses.


	4. The Bandit of Bohemia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is experiencing something new and wants to dissect it, obviously.  
> Plus we meet Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.  
> Some flirting but more will happen in the next chapter. I had planned to include it in this chapter, but the story got away from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: The Peterloo Massacre occurred at St Peter's Field, Manchester, England, on 16 August 1819, when cavalry charged into a crowd of 60,000–80,000 who had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation. Shelley's poem about it, The Masque of Anarchy, was sent for publication in the radical periodical The Examiner but because of restrictions on the radical press, was not published until 1832, ten years after the poet's death.  
> Note 2: The Bow Street Runners were the equivalent of informers. They infiltrated the criminal underworld and frequently crossed the line. Understandably, they were not happy when Scotland Yard was created.  
> Note 3: The change in life John mentions is puberty

_“Byron hated the endless solicitations from hat-makers and ‘Wild Irishmen’ and ‘Miss Emma Somebody with a play entitled The Bandit of Bohemia’”._

_From The Vampyre Family by Andrew McConnell Stott_

* * *

 

The violent tide of sensations was subsuming every coherent thought in Sherlock’s mind; yet he didn’t want to surrender to it entirely; there was a forceful part of him that needed to describe and catalogue, to evoke and memorise, even when the call of his blood was rendering any of these actions almost impossible.

It was a shocking revelation that he could feel this way: he’d read about it in science books and the odd novel, and witnessed the results of it in the course of his brief career as a detective. What he lacked was direct experience and he was presently measuring the width of the abyss between theory and practice.

The first touch of John’s lips on his skin had sparked a line of fire - much like the tinder with the gunpowder - that ascended from his thighs to his chest, tensing and swelling every erectile tissue in its wake.

 _Nipples_ , he marvelled, as he felt them rise and harden. But the most alarming thing was the surging of his member, which he’d always succeeded in keeping dormant, and that was now pressing against the complex fastening of his _very_ tight trousers.

“Oh, please,” he moaned, arching his back, seeking contact and friction.

His friend was lost in the pleasures afforded by a naked throat and a partly-uncovered collarbone: he kissed, bit and suckled them with a dedication that knew no respite.

“Tell me,” John panted, breathing hot air on the wetted skin.

“Hold me,” the detective pleaded, and was obeyed: two strong arms fastened around him, palms squeezing his chest, caressing it roughly, so that the linen of his shirt rubbed and chafed where he most desired it. After a blissful while, he realised the tightening of his abdomen and the ache in his groin made touching a necessity, but his hand were not free.

“Mm, oh, the pistol,” he muttered and felt John laughing, as he licked the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

The incident momentarily broke the spell, but the two men shared an interlude of hilarity that only increased their intimacy.

Once the weapon was disposed of, John sat down facing a very dishevelled detective: hair a-tangle, neck covered in red marks and shirt unbuttoned down to the opening of his waistcoat.

“You’ve never done anything of the sort,” he said and was rewarded with a pout worthy of Tom Trader. John wanted to kiss it away, but perhaps not quite yet.

“My body is only an afterthought.”

“And what a delicious afterthought it is.”

“You have been with other men.”

“Yes, I have.”

“And you have done more than… embracing them.”

“Yes.”

 _Reticent_ , Sherlock thought, and the set of his friend’s jaw did nothing to contradict this opinion. He formulated his deductions: perhaps an affair terminated in tragedy; his sentiments having been dashed and rejected. A wife who knew of his proclivities and died of heart-break; the resentment, the pain and the shame of having been the cause of it; and after a lapse of time, a naïve, young man with nothing to offer but a squalid adventure and a half-formed body.

“You are shaking, my dear fellow. Would you like a glass of rum? I keep a bottle in the sideboard.”

John’s concerned tone shook him out of his trance.

“I don’t drink rum,” he lied, making a great show of fastening his buttons and straightening his waistcoat. He raked a hand through the curls at his nape, as if to erase all signs of the previous dalliance.

John poured an inch of liquor in a glass and gulped it down.

“I apologise most fervidly, my friend. I shouldn’t have…”

“…kissed…”

“…talked…”

They spoke at the same time and the older man immediately shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I won’t be prevailed upon to say sorry for having kissed you. I wanted to and so did you. But afterwards, I shouldn’t have made polite conversation about it, and for this I apologise. You have every right to guard your secrets as I treasure mine. Besides, we have a case to investigate and you are, after all, devoted to your work.”

A number of cutting ripostes crossed Sherlock’s mind, but he couldn’t force them out, knowing them to be falsehoods and therefore unworthy of John.

“Yes, you are right,” he replied, at last. “On both counts: we need to get back to the case and I have never tried… any of it.”

“Good…yes… good,” the doctor said and, a flash of hunger in his eyes, he turned away to tend to his packing.

 

“Where are we going? I thought you wanted to visit the Birdcage.”

“Firstly, I would like to give that licence number to Lestrade. He oversees the Covent Garden F division.”

“I’ve read about them; they quelled the riots on the Strand last November.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you do, do not mention the baton-charge to him; he will never stop boasting about it.”

“Well, it was a remarkable feat of policing. We could have ended up with something akin to the Peterloo Massacre.”

“Lestrade would never stand for gratuitous violence; he’s a good fellow, a zealous policeman and a useless detective.”

“How do you mean?” John asked, smiling.

“He won’t accept that the application of science should be a fundamental part of his work. I have seen him interrogate a murder suspect: the fellow contradicted himself at least three times and besides, the conclusion would have been a foregone one had Lestrade bothered to ascertain the time of death of the victim. He gave permission to bury the corpse; thankfully I was there to prevent it. In conclusion: the man had died at least three days before the discovery of the body and the suspect could provide a cast-iron alibi for that period of time.”

“Impressive.”

“Meretricious,” the detective replied, returning the smile.

 

The Covent Garden police quarters were a hive of activity and Gregory Lestrade was exactly as Sherlock had described him: he exuded bonhomie and common sense, but even John could not imagine him as possessing a cunning, inquisitive mind.

“Mr Holmes the younger,” he exclaimed, a soubriquet that evidently the detective resented. “And who is this gentleman?”

“Doctor Watson collaborates with me. I need the help of a surgeon for my new case.”

“Has somebody died?”

“People die every day, but it appears that some of them do not stay in their graves long enough to meet their maker.”

“Grave-snatching? Isn’t it too plebeian for your sophisticated tastes?”

“John may disagree with you, but I was thinking of murder, not of the mere resurrection practice.”

Lestrade was a picture of astonishment.

“What, like Burke and Hare in Edinburgh? That would indeed be horrible; as if we didn’t have our hands full already, what with the Vagrants Act and the Bow Street Runners gunning for our jobs.”

“You seem delighted,” the detective remarked, at which the Inspector laughed.

“I enjoy a challenge,” he replied.

“Can’t say I disagree,” John concurred, eagerly.

“Glad to know you are kindred spirits, but it’s not the reason we have come here to see you. I have obtained the licence number of a chariot. Would you be able to provide me with the name and address of the driver? The carriage was stationed at Farringdon when the number was taken down,” Sherlock said, writing the number down on the Inspector’s ledger.

Lestrade sighed and sat back on his chair.

“I shall do my utmost to help, but it may take a while. The Licence Commissioner doesn’t relish being ordered about by us of the New Police.”

“He won’t say no to the hero of the baton-charge,” said John, winking at his disgruntled companion.

The Inspector lit up like a Guy Fawkes’ bonfire.

“Well, I wouldn’t say hero,” he beamed.

“Oh, yes you would,” Sherlock countered and, without of word of gratitude, he left the premises with John at his side.

 

“I wouldn’t say no to a spot of lunch,” the doctor said, as they returned to their cab.

“Mrs Hudson will have prepared something.”

“What, are we returning to Baker Street?”

“I have to consult a couple of publications; and you better unpack your garments or they will crumple; your army uniform,” he coughed, “you wouldn’t want it to crease.”

“It’s not important; certainly not like apprehending a criminal anyway.”

“You are obviously in need of sustenance and I would rather have you in tip-top condition,” the detective replied, and again wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“I could eat a bite at the Birdcage,” John insisted, but it was clear that Sherlock had other ideas and that he wouldn’t fully disclose his reasons.

In truth, the young man wanted to peruse the last few issues of the ‘Hue and Cry’ magazine, to check the missing persons section.  

“You never asked that boy when it was that he saw those scoundrels put their bundle inside the chariot,” John remarked.

“I was wondering when you’d ask me about that. Tom Trader did write it on that piece of paper. The ending part of his scribble was the date; chariot’s plaques have two letters and three numbers, not five. It was 8 1, the 8th of January.”

“Only three days ago!”

“There is more to this case than mere expediency; I’m sure of it.”

 

At Baker Street, they were greeted at the front door by Mrs Hudson, an elderly woman of deceptively frail appearance. John could see it from the look in her eyes that she wasn’t as helpless as she feigned to be.

“This is Doctor John Watson, my new assistant and friend. He will be sharing my lodgings from today. John, this is my housekeep… my landlady, Mrs Hudson.”

The lady tilted her head to the side like a dainty bird and stared at the blond man for a little while.

“Yes, yes, you’ll do,” she said, nodding to herself. Then she seemed to remember something and her eyes focussed on Sherlock with a clarity that betrayed her real nature.

“There is a young lady waiting for you upstairs. I served her tea in the drawing room. A proper lady, but with a touch of the unusual about her; she carries a fur muffler,” she added, as if that explained everything.

“There’s a pork pie on the hot plate,” she said, looking at John and to Sherlock: “there’s a dish of bread and butter on the window sill. I left the sash open to keep it fresh, like you prefer it.”

“Yes, much obliged,” Sherlock replied, his mind already thinking about their perspective client.

“Very good of you, Mrs Hudson,” John added, much more warmly.

 

It was indeed a Lady that rose from a nest of brocade and silk as they entered the sitting room; and Mrs Hudson had been correct in her description, as the young woman wore a large muffler and the hand that she extended was gloveless.

“Lady Helen Vere,” she said, once the two men had introduced themselves. “I want you to help me find my sister, Mr Holmes. She’s disappeared and I do not intend to contact this New Police people. I don’t trust them, not with something so important.”

“And you trust me; why?” Sherlock asked, once they were all sitting down and sipping tea.

“I have heard about you from one of my friends, Mr Charles Fitzgerald. He was at Trinity with you. He said you had become a private investigator.”

“I see,” the detective said, not altogether pleased at being recommended by an old school acquaintance.

“I can offer you a substantial recompense; our parents died and left us more than comfortably off.”

“And yet you write, which I assume is for pleasure rather than necessity.”

“How do you know?” Lady Vere said, staring at him with her large blue eyes. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, John thought, not with that long face and pointy nose, but there was determination and strength in her features, and a lack of nonsense in her discourse that Sherlock would surely appreciate.

“There's a tiny ink-stain on your little finger; you took great care in scrubbing the rest of your right hand clean, but you missed a spot. Also, you were flexing your hand and wrist, a thing I have seen done many a time while at Cambridge by students who spent their days writing.”

“I was right, you see? You are the right person!” she exclaimed, looking at John as if to seek confirmation, which he hastened to provide.

“Yes, I’m a writer, but I do not publish under my real name; I adopted a pen name, something less decorative and more… masculine. Well, you’d find out sooner or later: my alias is Edward Bulwer.

“You wrote The Bandit of Bohemia!” exclaimed John, letting his enthusiasm show in full and thus unwittingly causing Sherlock’s first ever pang of jealousy.

Helen Vere did her best to conceal her pleasure at being face to face with one of her readers.

“Yes, well, I’m not sure that is one of my best efforts,” she said.

“It is marvellous! The count disguised in Albanian garb, fighting for the cause of the resistance? I wish I had written that.”

“You write?” Sherlock queried, caught by surprise.

“My miserly efforts will never come close to Lady Vere’s,” John replied, adding “Tell us about your sister, please.”

“Her name is Emma; Emma Clairmont; she’s only my half -sister, but I love her like a real sister. If you have siblings, you must understand.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time with a lengthy paean to our childhood, but it was a magical and brief one, ended rather abruptly by our father’s death. My mother had died in childbirth and Emma, who’s younger than me by two years, is the daughter of our father’s second wife. Upon his death, she remarried. Our step-father, Baron Clairmont, was not an agreeable man: not cruel, but cold and exceedingly pious. No children came from their union; a fact which had a pejorative effect on his already frigid disposition. Literature is rife with forbidding manors and helpless princesses and I would never inflict any of that taradiddle on your manly sensibilities. It was, however, a trying time of seclusion and quiet despair. Being made of stouter material, I bore it better than Emma, who was always the sensitive sort. Unlike me, she’s also very beautiful, a combination which always annoyed our step-father, who unreasonably saw it as a deliberate taunt to the barrenness of his marriage. The continuous strain placed upon her nerves nearly drove Emma to insanity: she took to sleep-walking and when she woke up in the morning, she couldn’t remember the act or what had followed it.”

“How long ago was it?” the detective asked.

“Three years; she was fifteen at the time.”

“The change in life may have brought the condition on, together with a tinge of hysteria,” explained John.

“That’s why I told myself and Emma, but she was convinced an evil spirit had taken possession of our home.”

“A fanciful suggestion,” Sherlock said.

“Perhaps,” Helen conceded. “A year from the start of her condition, our parents were killed in their marital bed. The ceiling collapsed on them, quite literally. The manor is ancient, but the architecture perfectly sound; or at least we thought as much.”

“You inherited a fortune.”

“We can’t touch the capital until we marry and have children, but the income is more than ample, for both of us.”

“I would like to know more about your sister’s surname, if I may be so bold.”

“Her mother insisted she was fully adopted by her new husband. Because of a codicil in our real father’s will, I retained the family title.”

“I see… and then you came to London.”

Lady Vere laughed and suddenly John saw how attractive she could be.

“As swiftly as we decently could. We leased a house in Mayfair and I thought that would be the start of our new life.”

“And it wasn’t?” John queried.

“To some extent: we have some distant cousins here, they are the only family we have left: nice, elderly darlings, who have done their best to introduce us into the so-called _ton._ Alas, neither of us was suitable: I, for being too immersed in my literary pursuits and Emma, for her own secretive reasons.”

“Did you investigate those reasons?”

The lady fidgeted, as if an insect had bitter her arm.

“I did what I could, but I was afraid she would leave me. She had her own money settlement from her mother’s estate and I was scared she would run away.”

“What was her behaviour during your time here in London?”

“She was distant, lost in her own world. I know now she’d started attending the meetings of a secret society of which she wouldn’t tell me the name. She begged me not to follow her there, and I was forced to consent.”

“And you never found out where she went?”

“Not _where_ , but I did eventually find the name of it, quite by chance. She had a book she carried everywhere with her, and one evening I contrived to peruse it and found a note in her handwriting. It read: _Life in Death_.”

“It could have been a note about another novel she was reading,” John suggested.

“When I said the words to her, she blanched and almost fainted.”

“I have never heard of this society,” said Sherlock, his eyes shining like a cat’s.

“Nor have I, and believe me, I have made my enquiries, both as Helen Vere and as Edward Bulwer. It was a month ago when I saw the note and ten days ago when she disappeared. I went to her room after her maid informed me her bed had not been slept in. Upon inspection, I found out that her things were still there, but she was not.”

“Can you tell us anything more about her friends her acquaintances?”

“I was her only friend in London, as far as I know. We had few childhood friends from whom we were separated when we went to live with Baron Clairmont; as we were educated at home by tutors and governesses, we did not have any school friends. But there is one thing I can tell you, a passion she’d developed of late, a rather macabre and perhaps dangerous one: she loved to visit graveyards.”

“Did she?” the detective said, his face transfigured by excitement. “We will take the case, Lady Vere. Please send us a detailed written account of what you just told us and everything else you can remember. We shall visit your Mayfair home tomorrow and have a look at Miss Clairmont’s rooms. In the meantime, rest assured that we shall find your sister.”

Helen Vere’s eye sparkled with unshed tears.

“It is very good of you, Mr Holmes. My sincerest thanks to you Sir, and to you, Doctor Watson.”

“My Lady,” the doctor said, kissing the young woman’s hand.

 And with that, Lady Vere collected her brocades and furs and left.

“This is better than beholding the skull of Bonaparte,” Sherlock enthused, prancing around the sitting room like a silk-clad faun and John, despite his compassion for Lady Vere, could not suppress his increasing fondness for the eccentric young man.


	5. A Pageant of Phantoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discuss skin complaints (really) and go to the Birdcage.  
> Oh, and they do stuff (wink wink)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Penny bloods was the original name for the booklets that, in the 1860s, were renamed penny dreadfuls and told stories of adventure, initially of pirates and highwaymen, later concentrating on crime and detection.  
> Note 2: Carpue and Tuson really owned private anatomy schools in central London.  
> Note 3: Sledge beggars were fairly common: people whose lower limbs had been amputated and whose truncated body was placed on a sledge.  
> Note 4: The Forty Thieves and their tattoo system was a real thing  
> Note 5: Crabtree Row is now Columbia Road where the famous Sunday flower market is  
> Note 6: Joe Johnson was famous because of his Nelson's ship hat.  
> Note 7: Charlies were policemen

_“No loneliness can be like that which weighs upon the heart in the centre of faces never ending, without voice or utterance for him; eyes innumerable, that have ‘no speculation’ in their orbs which he can understand; and hurrying figures of men and women weaving to and fro, with no apparent purposes intelligible to a stranger, seeming like a mask of maniacs, or, oftentimes, like a pageant of phantoms.”_

_From Autobiographical Sketches by Thomas De Quincey_

 

* * *

 

“Eczema,” Sherlock said, picking crumbs of pork pie from John’s plate even as he pretended to be wholly engrossed by the pile of magazines and books he was consulting. The bread and butter lay untouched on the platter, aside from the one slice the doctor had purloined.

“What?”

John’s mind too was partly occupied with thoughts of artistic excellence and his own frustrating output which, he thought, lacked imagination and dramatic flair.

“‘ _An eruption_ _of minute vesicles, non-contagious, crowded together; and which from the absorption of the fluid they contained, form into thin flakes or crusts_ ’ Willan and Bateman,” the detective quoted with a mixture of impatience and smugness.

“I know what eczema is; why are you mentioning a skin complaint at this juncture, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Your precious Lady Vere displayed clear symptoms of suffering from it; did you notice how she fidgeted and almost scratched her arm?”

“It could be for a number of reasons; and she’s neither precious nor mine.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose in mock-incredulity.

“I thought the author of The Bandit of Bohemia was _infinitely_ precious to you. No, the dryness of her skin coupled with the colour of her nails and the reddening at both sides of her nose confirm my diagnosis: eczema.”

“How would you know about Willan and Bateman?”

“I’m a man of science, didn’t I tell you?”

“A Lancet reader, I bet,” John snorted. “That exasperating chap who comes to the hospital but already knows what’s wrong with him because he’s read it on a medical publication.”

Sherlock stabbed the last portion of pie with his fork and elegantly brought it to his lips.

“A penny bloods writer, I bet,” the detective said, “That mediocre scribbler who desperately keeps putting pen to paper only to end up by copying those infinitely more talented than him.”

The doctor glared at his friend, before discerning the vulnerability hidden behind his defensive acerbity.

“It’s only a journal, nothing grand or pretentious. When I came back from the Gold Coast, I felt alone like I never had before. For reasons that you may have guessed, there wasn’t a soul I could turn to. Stamford was the closest friend I had and even he had left for London. After my wife died, I decided I had to get away, but I had to find a position first. It was a lonely interval and the one consolation I had was my journal. That and reading novels such as Edward Bulwer’s; it pleases me to think that Lady Vere’s writing may originate from the same place as mine: a sense of imprisonment, of beautiful times forever lost.”

Sherlock’s face was traversed by a variety of expressions, some of which John couldn’t decipher.

“I’m sorry about your loss; about every loss you ever had to endure,” he said, in a small voice.

John smiled brightly and patted the young man’s arm.

“You should be glad; if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have anything half as interesting to relate. _The Phantom Lady_ has all the trappings of a good story. I may even try and publish it.”

The detective sighed piteously, but his eyes were aglow with pride.

“What a thoroughly uncomplicated mind you possess,” he declared, leaning into the touch of John’s hand, which still rested on his arm.

“You speak the truth, my dear. Only one of us needs to be a man of genius, while the other should and will be content with basking in reflected glory.”

This said, the doctor briefly caressed Sherlock’s hand and stood up before he could notice the blush on the man’s cheeks.

“The two cases are interconnected, I presume,” John said, as he went up to the window, a newly-lit cigarette between his fingers.

“They have to be. Whether Lady Vere told us the complete truth or made up part of the story, the clues still point in the same direction. Life in Death could be a literary association, a spiritualist society or even a criminal enterprise, but visiting graveyards is not a pastime worthy of a gentlewoman.”

“A beautiful young woman lost in her daydreams seems the perfect subject for a poem.”

Sherlock felt another stab of the same horrid feeling that had plagued him during Helen Vere’s visit. As it was customary, he resorted to sarcasm.

“You see yourself as a knight in shining armour, rescuing the girl and thus winning her devotion. You should beware those silly dreams, my friend; never was an aging surgeon riddled with war injuries transmuted into the worthy hero of a romantic novelette.”

John was not tricked this time: he caught a glimpse of the worm inside the apple, and felt triumphant. Cautiously, he drew closer to the detective who had his back to him, and buried both hands in the luxuriant mass of curls, grazing the scalp with his nails.

“I don’t doubt you are right,” he whispered in his ear, “but you see, my dear, I never dreamed those dreams. You have seen me, but have you really observed?”

He punctuated his speech with kisses along the detective’s jaw, until he felt him tremble.

“I, yes, oh,” Sherlock muttered, unable to ignore the multiplicity of stimuli attacking him from all directions: sound, touch, smell; all intoxicating and demanding to be analysed.

“I’m being unfair,” John said and after one last kiss on the detective’s cheek, he let him go. “I will be in my room; call me when you need my help,” he added, and was gone, leaving behind him a plume of smoke and a flustered Sherlock Holmes.

 

“And who are you supposed to be?” John chuckled, as he admired a humbly-attired Sherlock: the youth wore a plain linen shirt with grey trousers and waistcoat and a black cravat. His collar was threadbare and his hair was carefully combed; even his hat was a far cry from his usual flamboyant head-gear.

“A surgeon looking to open a private anatomy school, same as Carpue or Tuson; would I pass muster?” the detective asked, composing his features in a semblance of muted respectability that was uncannily effective.

“Yes, I believe you would. My only objection is this: would a couple of surgeon frequent a watering-hole patronised by resurrectionists? Surely they would deem it below their station.”

The younger man shook his head.

“Not if their enterprise was lacking in funds; think on it, John: a dozen private anatomy schools in addition to the public hospitals; that, and a chronic dearth of subjects to dissect can only mean one thing: he who has the heaviest purse wins the contest. But what of those who do not have plenty of gold in their pocket?”

“They have to hunt down their preys, shut both eyes and hold their noses.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly, his disguise slipping for a moment.

“Precisely, my dear; we shall buy them drinks and let them believe we are the amicable, not overly law-abiding sort.”

“You aren’t the ‘overly law-abiding’ sort,” John remarked.

“You could stay here, if you so wish,” was the curt reply.

“And who would watch over you then? I believe part of my services consist in keeping you from danger. I couldn’t do that from here.”

“Not unless you believe in demonic possession, like Miss Clairmont.”

“The only possession I believe in can hardly be called demonic and it requires proximity, not estrangement.”

“You do have a way with words; perhaps you should send a story to The New Monthly Magazine,” Sherlock quipped.

“Let’s go, before I lose my amicable frame of mind,” John replied, grinning.

 

“What does Billy do when you are not using his services?”

They were cutting through the thick fog of central London, where gas lamps illuminated the disparate crowd: a sea of faces weaving in and out of sight; beggars side by side with reputable trades people, women whose skin was riddled with pox; kids with boxes full of mice or with puppets on strings; street-sweepers and peddlers of spoons and chickweed; couples in furs and feathered hats heading for the Drury Lane theatre. The relative speed of the hansom cab made the spectacle all the more nightmarish, a veritable cosmorama of humanity.

“He lives in the underground flat at Baker Street,” Sherlock replied, staring out of the window and luxuriating in the spectacle of misery and nobility offered by the city his heart and soul belonged to.

“Have you noticed the back of his left hand?”

“No, can’t say I did,” replied John, squinting at the writing on a placard held up by a sledge beggar.

“It’s a tattoo made with a needle dipped in gunpowder, which identifies the Forty Thieves, the Coven Garden gang of vagabond boys. Lestrade arrested him as he was trying to rob a fruit seller. I was there when he brought him in; he was so slippery he almost vanished in front of our eyes. Mycroft tried to hire him to spy on me, but Billy mistrusts anyone connected with the government.”

“Clever lad,” John remarked.

“I’m surprised my brother hasn’t yet appeared in a miasma of sulphur, like Lucifer, trying to lure you to the dark side.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know about me; it’s been barely a day.”

“It would be remiss of him it that were the reason, but I rather think that he believes you won’t stay.”

“The dark side could never be as attractive as this adventure; besides, I’m of Billy’s persuasion where the government is concerned.”

A faint smiled curved the detective’s lips and it was immediately reflected on his companion’s countenance.

Past the more affluent areas of the West End, the effluvia of sewage pervaded the atmosphere; the landscape was pullulating with hidden life, as the gas lamps has become a rare occurrence. 

“Life in the streets must be horrifying; I’m truly glad your lad has found you and is no longer in danger of meeting heaven knows what horrid fate.”

“Maybe I needed saving too,” Sherlock said, wistfully.

“From solitude?” the doctor suggested.

“That and the temptations that come with having money, time and a curious, obsessive disposition; a mind that never ceases to acquire information; that seldom finds pleasure in fatuous pursuits; the stillness typical of a gentleman’s life would annihilate me.”

“What temptations?” John asked, his voice tense as a tightrope.

What reply Sherlock was about to provide had to be saved for another time, as they had reached their destination.

The Birdcage was a squat, square building whose exterior was almost entirely blackened by soot and the ravages of time, except for the bottle green stripe that adorned the ground floor frontage on which the golden lettering of the pub’s name shone like a beacon in a storm.

Billy knew the neighbourhood well, so he took the cab into a more secluded side street, paid a street urchin to look after it, and sauntered off in search of food and entertainment.

 

Crabtree Row was one of the most dilapidated areas of London: it overlooked the low cottages of Nova Scotia Gardens which were built on wasteland: all around were heaps of sludge and rubbish; the stench was unpleasant in that cold weather and must have been unbearable during the summer. The Birdcage stood in the midst of this desolation like the gates of hell: promising eternal delight but delivering only a more rapid descent into its bowels.

A cast iron birdcage was suspended over the bar, surveying that smoky, depraved inferno from an unreachable distance.

John and Sherlock exchanged a brief glance then opened the doors and dived in.

The din was deafening: a sea shanty was being sung with little care for tune or lyrics; the reason for this odd choice became clear when they noticed the Chinese shadow puppetry taking place at the back of the pub: Nelson’s ship, Victory, was moving as if dashed about by ocean waves.

“That’s Joe Johnson,” a voice said, coming from an alcove next to them.

A man with yellowed teeth and a filthy blouse and breeches was slumped between the wall and the greasy back of a chair. His eyes had a manic expression and he was sweating profusely.

“Boat’s attached to his hat,” he explained, and his polished accent clashed with his wretched appearance; he was right: a tall black man was wearing the model of a ship on top of his hat and he was moving to imitate a choppy sea.

“The things people will do for a few shillings,” he sighed.

John went to the bar and ordered three gins and when he returned, a roaring applause was followed by another bawdy song, and this time the attraction was a buxom red-faced woman with her chest on full display and her skirts up to her knees.

“Thanks,” the man said, putting away his drink in one gulp. “Name’s William Crompton, but people call me Will. Not that anyone calls me, so to speak. What are you two gentlemen doing in this hovel?”

“Business, I hope,” replied Sherlock, whose pristine beauty couldn’t be completely obliterated even by the most mundane of his disguises. It made John ache for silence and devotion, like the interior of a cathedral or the top of a mountain; a rarefied atmosphere where not a speck of vileness could debase the white perfection of his friend’s skin.

“We are surgeons. I work at Guy’s, but I’m thinking of striking out on my own; well with my partner here,” he said, drinking a mouthful of the strongest gin he’d ever tasted.

Crompton snorted and made to light up the stub of a smoked cigarette before John offered him a fresh one.

“You’re looking for body snatchers. Plenty of them in here, you can take your pick.”

“Can one just come in here and spread the rumour, so to speak? Say we gave you the name of our business; would it be sufficient as an introduction?”

“You could be Runners or Charlies in disguise. You could be anyone,” the man said, his concave chest racked by a sudden fit of coughing.

Sherlock’s face took on a cunning, mean-spirited expression.

“We could, couldn’t we? But if we were what we say we are, we might be able to procure what you yearn for more than drink.”

“And what would that be?” Will asked, squinting as if he was trying to see the men in front of him from a great distance.

“Would this be a good start?” the detective asked, swiftly extracting a green flagon from the inner pocket of his overcoat.

“Divine,” the man sighed, curling avid fingers around the bottle.

 _Absinthe,_ John realised, and thought back to what his friend had said the night before about the contents of his cabinet.

“I have more of this and better _tonics,_ too. What do you say?”

“I don’t think,” the doctor started, but was silenced by a piercing stare from his companion.

“I say we have a deal,” Crompton replied, his attention already captured by the absinthe.

“Here’s my card.”

The detective took out a square of cream parchment paper from a leather purse and placed it on the blackened upturned palm of the man. John noticed that his gestures were open and his manner slightly theatrical; Sherlock clearly wanted to capture the attention of the crowd.

The blond man looked around and for a fearful instant had the impression all those weather-beaten faces and all those porcine eyes were conspiring against them; that he was on the gallows and that mass of rapacious countenances was leering at him, baying for his blood.

It was nothing but fancy, but it did unsettle him anyway.

Before he could gather his wits, he was being guided towards the exit by his friend’s large hand.

Their carriage was waiting for them at the corner of Nova Scotia Gardens.

“How did Billy know we were coming out at this very moment?” he questioned.

“He knows my ways,” Sherlock replied, curtly.

“You gave drugs to a dope fiend,” John argued, once inside the cab. “Was it your intention from the start?”

The detective kept as far away as possible from him, his face completely turned outwards.

“This is what I excel at: enter a room, immediately detect the weakest link in the chain and determine the easiest manner of snapping it.”

“That man needs help and you just pushed him further into his grave.”

“It's not my responsibility to save him.”

John was seething with rage, smashing against a wall of indifference.

“My wife,” he hissed, “died of alcoholism.”

“You said it was typhoid fever,” the detective replied.

They looked at each other like enemies then John shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s what people say when they want to hide the truth, don’t they? They invent a more palatable version of events. It’s what you did, if I am not mistaken.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Sherlock’s voice was cold and dry. “I told you about my temptations.”

“You meant you were tempted by drugs?”

“Yes, liquid opium and laudanum were my favourite tipples, for a while.”

“But you stopped.”

“I stumbled upon a case the police couldn’t solve. It was a suitable distraction.”

“What if there were no such distractions?”

The youth’s lips tightened into a hard, white line.

“I am not a clairvoyant,” he said.

John was tired, cold and empty; he had wanted to do this almost from the start and it suddenly felt as if all the evils of the universe were banging at their door and there was only one way to stamp them out.

“Come here,” he whispered and, holding the young man’s face between his hands, he pulled it towards him and pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s.

“Have you ever?” he murmured and, after the other’s negative response he asked, “May I?” and this time he obtained permission.

 

A hint of tobacco, gin and a sweet-sour flavour that he couldn’t correctly place, Sherlock vaguely mused; wildly, his mind flailed and flapped its wings and chased the undisclosed meaning of it all, but in vain.

The kiss had started slowly, with soft brushes of lips and the barest hint of tongue, which soon had pushed through the seam of his closed mouth; when he allowed it inside, his own had welcomed the intrusion and from that point, his memories ceased to exist in verbalised form. His only words were _yes_ and _again_ , interspersed with sighs and moans. He’d imagined he would have resented the assault; being pressed against the backrest of the seat, his mouth repeatedly invaded, possessed, and his body a thing of needs and wants; he didn’t; he only yearned for more.

“Is this alright?” John asked, at some point, and before Sherlock could give him one of his scathing replies, he indicated a point on the detective’s chest. The young man nodded frantically and a few unbuttoned garments later, he was ascending the steps to heaven.

While the kissing continued, there was the additional bliss of his bare skin being stroked: John was pinching one of Sherlock’s nipples between two of his fingers while flicking the tip with the pad of his thumb.

“Oh, Christ, yes, yes,” he sighed in his friend’s mouth.

“I can do better,” the blond man said with a little smile; Sherlock could not fathom how, but he was berating his own lack of imagination when suddenly teeth and tongue replaced his lover’s fingers.

 _Lover,_ he mused, and would have savoured the word again in his head, if the bite that followed hadn’t emptied his mind of all thoughts.

John was licking and suckling him as if that patch of skin were the only sustenance left in the universe.

“You’re the loveliest of creatures, the loveliest,” the doctor whispered, before taking Sherlock’s mouth again.

Thus pleasantly distracted, they had not realised the carriage had stopped abruptly in the midst of a deserted plot of land.   


	6. Like a Lutestring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John may have been abducted, or have they?  
> Also, men going at it in a determined way, so mind the tags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holywell Mount was indeed a private burial ground owned by two elderly ladies; the sexton/gravedigger's name was Whackett.

_“Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control_  
_Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat_  
 _The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,_  
 _The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul_  
 _To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note_  
 _Hath melted in the silence that it broke”_

_Beauty (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

 

* * *

 

Two things worried John Watson in that moment: the first was that they may have driven into a trap and the second was that Sherlock seemed unruffled by that eventuality.

While John swiftly unsheathed his pistol, the detective was adjusting his attire with Olympian poise.

“Why are you so calm?” he hissed, still light-headed from the embraces they had shared.

The detective dabbed at his own lips with a grey silk handkerchief before replying.

“Like I said, my dear, it’s a matter of discerning the weakest link in the chain.”

 At that, he opened the door of the carriage with a histrionic flourish and exclaimed, loudly:

“Touch the lad and your corpse won’t be worth sixpence!”

“Where are we?” John asked, dismounting the cab and inspecting the wretched landscape.

“Holywell Mount,” the detective replied. “Used to be the site of an Augustinian Priory; at present it’s a private burial ground. I wonder how many of these graves are still occupied.”

“We don’t like having strangers ‘round here,” a voice said. A man dressed in a black coat and wide-brimmed hat descended from the cab’s box. Billy had been tied up with a length of rope and his eyes covered with a blindfold.

A bulbous nose and a pair of large, veined hands were all they could see of him in the almost complete darkness that blanketed the hillock.

“We aren’t exactly strangers,” John replied. “We are surgeons looking for a spot of help for our new business venture.”

“What sort of help?” the man asked; there was a tinge of irony in his uncultured tones.

“The usual sort: we are anatomists, we need bodies to dissect and examine,” the detective replied, without hesitation.

“Why come here? Surely there’s better business to be done elsewhere.”

“Perhaps, but this is where we’ve come. Why would it bother you, Sir, and what is your name, if I may ask?”

A dry laugh that turned into a cough shook the man’s tall, lean frame.

“Whackett is the name and I’m the gravedigger here at Holywell. We don’t like strangers,” he repeated.

“Who is ‘we’?” asked John, who still had his hand on the handle of his pistol, which he had stuffed into his coat’s outer pocket.

“You are full of questions, Doctor Watson,” the man said.

“You know my name?”

The blond man’s fingers tightened more firmly around his weapon.

“It was on the card I gave to Crompton,” Sherlock explained.

“Dirty Will is what we call him,” Whackett sneered. “Nothing he won’t do for a couple of shillings. I bet you did not see that one coming.”

“If you did, you’d lose,” the young man replied, haughtily. “Although I have to admit that it wasn’t you I wanted to talk to, but rather your two mistresses.”

“I don’t have no _mistresses_ ,” hissed the gravedigger.

“Miss Christabel and Miss Rowena Light are the owners of this plot of land, which makes them your mistresses, Sir, whether you like it or not.”

“Ladies should converse with the quick and let us men deal with the dead,” mumbled the man.

“Has a young, beautiful lady visited this burial ground of late?”

The man chuckled.

“What do you think this is, Pall Mall? Look around you, Sir: this is no place for a young lady, not a living one,” he said, surrendering to another fit of coughing.

“Tell the Misses Light that we would love to meet them for a brief parley. You have our address. And now untie my driver, if you please.”

“We shall see,” Whackett replied and added: “Haven’t you a scalpel on you to cut those ropes with?” after which he cackled and left them there, on that foul knoll, as he walked away, communing with the darkness.

John hastened to Billy’s side and with a penknife he always carried with him, he cut the cords and set the lad free. The poor boy was mortified at having been so easily duped and tried to explain his reasons with wild gestures directed at the detective.

“Sorry about your ordeal,” the detective said, handing Billy a hip-flask and encouraging him to drink, “but the affair went just as I expected, so do not fret. Just drive us out of here.” The boy nodded fervently and after stretching his arms and legs, he returned to his post.

“You said you didn’t lie,” John observed, grabbing the flask from Sherlock’s hand and taking a swig from it.

“I never did; you drew your own conclusions and it’s not my fault that they were wrong.”

“Let’s get away from this godforsaken place.”

Once safely back to more illuminated areas, John resumed the conversation. He felt horribly betrayed, as if he’d uncovered all his secrets only to be made into the butt of a joke or the instrument of a cunning scheme.

“Was it true what you said about your temptations?”

The detective nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“And what about Crompton, was he only bait?”

“The green liquid in that bottle wasn’t absinthe; it was crème de menthe.”

The older man’s eyes were throwing daggers at his companion.

“You tricked me into telling you about my wife.”

“You were keeping things from me for the wrong reasons.”

“What?”

“You feel guilty and perhaps a little ashamed and I wanted to demonstrate to you that I don’t care about your past; only the present and the future matter.”

John’s heart was ablaze with anger.

“You could have asked me or waited for me to feel ready to unburden my soul to you.”

The detective looked him in the eye: his gaze was pure as crystal and there was a tinge of contrition in it that was hard to trust after what had just taken place.

“What happened between us, that wasn’t a trick,” he murmured, and despite his better judgement, his companion believed him.

“Here,” John said, and curling his arm around the young man’s waist, he drew him closer to his side. Sherlock responded by removing his hat and letting his head fall on John’s shoulder, where it stayed for the remainder of the journey.

“What was the real plan then?” he asked after a while, and felt the detective clear his throat, a sign that he was uncertain whether to relate the story in its entirety.

“You saw me consulting a map of London and various publications: I was researching the burial grounds near St. Leonard’s. The public ones are bound to be under stricter controls, no matter how infrequent, but the private sites are constantly overlooked as they do not fall under any particular jurisdiction. It didn’t take me long to single Holywell out and since the owners are two ladies of distinction, it seemed only logical to start from there. We could have gone directly to the hillock, and possibly obtained a similar result, but by showing up at The Birdcage, we have made it more difficult for any aspiring burker to murder us. There was a crowd in the pub and although they may all be trusted to keep their mouths shut when sober, you have seen for yourself how little it takes to convince one of them to become a snitch.”

“Astounding,” John exclaimed.

“I thought you were enraged.”

“I was,” the blond man sighed, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “I suspect I will have to forgive you ten times a day; I’m glad you didn’t offer drugs to that poor wretch, though.”

“You were disappointed in me yet you overlooked it.”

The doctor laughed, softly.

“As I said before: ten times a day. I will have to do better myself though, and learn to mistrust first impressions,” he said. “And what of these two ladies, the Misses Light; what information do you have about them?”

“According to the Observer, they inherited the land from a distant cousin who had won it at whist. They live in Kensington, as far as possible from the horrors of Shoreditch. I doubt they suspect what’s happening,” Sherlock replied, but his friend sensed his hesitation.

“You are not entirely certain,” he said.

“There was one detail that I deemed worthy of interest: they belong to a so-called spiritualist society.”

“Life in Death,” John suggested.

“The idea suggested itself.”

“Perhaps the society’s aim is to convince their acolytes that there is life after death.”

“Or, better still, that in this very life, amongst us, walk our dear departed ones. And that perchance, they may be prevailed upon to materialise in front of our eyes and even discourse with us. Obviously, they would not simply appear; oh no, they would need convincing: a sacrifice, a ritual, a surrender of some sort. A young girl may wish more than anything to see her deceased mother or her beloved father, and she may submit to all manner of ordeals.”

“Is that what happened?” murmured John, spellbound by his friend’s dulcet tones.

“It’s a possibility, but there’s a part of me, what I’m loath to call my intuition, that believes the solution to this case is merely in its infancy.”

“Your intuition could be wrong.”

“Yes, but it seldom is.”

 

Back at their lodgings, John couldn’t shake off the stench of death that clung to his person; even after removing his overcoat, he could still smell it.

“It’s all imaginary, of course, but I do feel the same,” Sherlock said, even though his companion had not uttered a word.

“You should use the bathtub; it’s your own home, after all. I will wash in my lodging.”

The detective stared at the rug under his feet and swallowed a couple of times.

“I always have trouble reaching my scapulae,” he muttered, “and some of the vertebrae. My lumbar area is somewhat less of an issue, but it does force me to stretch in a most precarious way.”

“Are you asking whether I can join you in the wash-room in order to scrub your back?” John asked, beaming.

“If it pleases you to couch it in such mundane verbiage,” the young man scoffed.

“The Lancet is to blame, I bet. Yes, I accept your extravagantly-worded offer.”

 

When he entered the room, John found the young man already immersed in the water of the tub: he was wearing a chemise which was only partially unbuttoned and his posture was rigid, with his back not even touching the wood cladding.

The doctor wore a cotton slip and smallclothes, which he hoped would shield his unavoidable reactions.

On a side cabinet, a series of glass bottles and folded linen sheets were neatly stacked and ready to use.

“Here we are,” John said, and as he approached he heard Sherlock’s exhale a tremulous breath.

“I wasn’t sure,” the youth started, indicating the garment he was wearing.

“It might be better without, but we could start this way and see what happens.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, softly, and then slid down the tub and allowed his garment to become soaked. When he emerged, the fabric was clinging to his body like a second skin and it was the most enticing sight John had ever had the fortune to gaze at.

He took the soap and started to work it into the drenched garment until it lathered. He then placed on a dish on the cabinet and proceeded with scrubbing the detective’s back.

It was heavenly work: the spinal furrow ended amidst the swell of his buttocks; his shoulder blades and ribcage were of statuary proportions while his waist was as slim as a girl’s; the only thing that was missing was the touch of his skin but, judging by Sherlock’s sighs and little cries, the situation was about to change for the better.

This was proven true after John had spent some time kneading the globes of the young man’s backside; he caressed them roughly, pressed his fingers into them and finally massaged them, all the while separating them so that the soapy water could wash along the seam down to his most secret place.

“Yes, mm, yes,” the detective moaned and as swiftly as he could, he undid the buttons of his chemise; unfortunately, they did not reach down to its hem, so he let it slid down to his waist until it floated wide on the water’s surface, like a lotus flower.

“Christ,” murmured John, as he marvelled at the freckled shoulders and rosy back. By that point, his body was tingling with desire and his arousal was pressing painfully against his smallclothes. Before he could think twice, he licked the water off the man’s spine, from nape to loins, drinking in the intoxicating scent of his youthful musk.

“Please, please,” Sherlock pleaded.

“What, my dear?” he replied, a little breathless.

“Come here,” was the reply.

There was nothing John wanted more and, aware of his erection, he removed his garments and joined Sherlock into the bath.

Rather than sitting, he went down on his knees, between the detective splayed legs. Sherlock’s curls were limp from the steam and plastered to his skull and brow; his cheeks were pink and his eyes pools of liquid darkness.

“Wait, I want to,” he said, and made to stand up; with John’s help, he too got to his knees, so that they were chest to chest.

“Let me,” the young man murmured, and taking a cloth from the cabinet and soaking it in soapy water, he slowly rubbed it along the length of his companion’s back.

All the while, John stared down at Sherlock’s erect member, unable to take his eyes off it, unsure whether he was permitted to touch it.

“I know for a fact that its dimensions are not… imposing,” the detective said, evidently ashamed. “While yours are… impressive, especially the girth,” he concluded.

John couldn’t help chuckling; he kissed the hollow of the youth’s throat and nibbled the sweet skin of his neck.

“May I touch you?” he whispered in the detective’s ear; when the latter nodded, he pressed his open palm against the swollen penis and caressed the engorged head. It leapt in his hand like a fish, palpitating with desire, and Sherlock let out a cry that went straight to John’s own groin. His fingers caressed the heavy testicles and the young man’s hips bucked like a startled stallion.

“Perfect proportions to fit in my mouth,” John said, sucking bruises on Sherlock’s upper chest.

“I need to,” the young man gasped, and his entire body was shaken by a powerful tremor.

The blond man wrapped him inside a tight embrace and, rubbing the youth’s skin, he said, in a commanding tone:

“Take your pleasure,” and it was precisely what Sherlock needed to hear: his orgasm was already approaching; he felt it coiled at the core of his bowels, ready to spring at the slightest of triggers. All he needed was friction: holding on to John’s strong arms, he frotted against the muscled body and dimly realised his companion was suckling at his neck; it was with a shock that he felt the pad of a finger press against the rim of his entrance and the mind-obliterating bliss of it cut his strings and let loose the torrent of his release.

“Yes, my darling, yes,” he heard John say, as if from a distance, and as his climax abated, the hot wave of his lover’s discharge coated his belly, trickling down to mingle with his own.

Before he could think of a thing to say, he was being kissed deeply and thoroughly, with a passion he reciprocated wholly, if – at the start – a little tentatively, due to his lack of experience.

“I’ll have to wash you again,” the ex-soldier joked, in a croaky voice. “Not that I mind,” he added, caressing Sherlock’s bewildered face.

And without further ado, he delicately positioned his lover back down into the water, hastening to replace it with a fresh supply.

Their ablutions were completed with deliberate slowness and punctuated with occasional laughter and chaste kisses. As John rubbed his friend dry, trying not to over-stimulate the sensitive skin, Sherlock’s expression became grave and solemn.

“I liked what we just did, but I’m not certain that… in fact, I am quite sure that,” he started, with uncharacteristic lack of eloquence.

“If you don’t want to repeat the experience, I’ll understand,” the older man replied, feeling a bit sick to his stomach.

“No, I mean yes, I do, but what you did, with your finger, I severely doubt I shall want to reciprocate; I’d rather,” he tried to explain.

“You prefer to let me take care of you,” John continued, another fire already burning in his chest, spreading to his nether regions. “Well, we are two fortunate men, since I happen to prefer that, too.”

“You do?” the young man asked, smiling.

“Oh yes, very much so. Also, I strongly advise to separate now, if you don’t want to find yourself besmirched all over again.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” the detective replied, blushing down to his chest. “And I agree wholeheartedly. I shall see you in the morning.”

“You will,” the doctor replied, kissing the fingers of his friend’s hand, one by one. “It was a good day.”

“It really was,” Sherlock concurred and, sliding into a clean chemise, he walked to his rooms, as if in a daydream.

 

Unlike his young friend, John couldn’t subsist on a diet of excitement and sooty air; thus, late into the evening, he found himself in the kitchen, supping on cold mutton and pickles and drinking ale.

His mind retraced the events of the day, which compared to his recent life seemed fantastic and a little preposterous.

Sherlock was a riddle wrapped in a delicious receptacle of contradictions, the doctor mused. And he was more vulnerable that he would ever care to admit. In addition to that, John expected that obnoxious brother of his to soon make his appearance and it was eminently possible that he would resent the doctor’s presence in his sibling’s house.

As he swallowed the last of his beer, he resolved to never let his friend down and always be at this side, for better or worse.

Once his mind was made up on a subject, he seldom wavered.


	7. The Dreamy House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mycroft, at last.  
> The boys visit Gore House and Sherlock catches a glimpse of what will become one of his great passions, aside from the detective work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Herbert Mayo, professor of anatomy at King’s College London, was nick-named the Owl because he lectured with his eyes half-closed. He also sported a pronounced lisp.  
> ‘Bats’ was the name given by the Lancet’s founder (Thomas Wakely) to the men who ran the London Medical Establishment.  
> Privates = the private anatomy schools, which frequently had the most talented surgeons, as they steered clear of nepotism.  
> Reverend William Otter was the first Principal at King’s.  
> Sometimes I think the entire world is a Sherlock conspiracy and that John is writing our stories for The Strand.  
> Note 2: Sir Astley Cooper, at the time England’s most renowned surgeon, championed nepotism, disregarding that his nephew Bransby was a very poor doctor and killed several of his patients.  
> Note 3: Gore House was famously the abode of William Wilberforce, he who fought to abolish the slave trade. I invented all about the interiors, but the exterior was as per my description. It stood on the site were now is the Royal Albert Hall.  
> Note 4: John Hilton - also known as Anatomical John - was indeed demonstrator of anatomy at Guy's.

_“All day within the dreamy house,_

_The doors upon their hinges creak'd;_

_The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse_

_Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,_

_Or from the crevice peer'd about._

_Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,_

_Old footsteps trod the upper floors,_

_Old voices called her from without._

_She only said, ‘My life is dreary,_

_He cometh not,’ she said;_

_She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,_

_I would that I were dead!’”_

_Mariana – 1830 (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

 

* * *

 

“I advise you to speak to the Owl. He knows everything about Bats and Privates, which seems to me the easiest way to tackle the problem. Otter’s opinion would also be worth consulting.”

John arrived at the threshold of the drawing room and was greeted by these esoteric words, whose nonsensical meaning forced him to doubt his own ears.

He hesitated for a moment and when he finally entered, saw a tall, elegant man standing by the fireplace; he was older than John and wore a sardonic expression on his unremarkable, sallow face.

“Doctor John Watson, I presume,” the man said, studying him from top to toe.

The blond man turned to look at Sherlock, who was studiously consulting the Morning Advertiser and ignoring the interaction between the two men.

 _I see,_ he mused.

“Mycroft Holmes, I presume,” he replied, eliciting a half-baked smile from the elder Holmes.

“Congratulations are in order, methinks,” the man continued, undeterred. “An individual of humble origins, with no prestigious connections, yet you contrived to obtain a post at Guy’s Hospital.”

“I didn’t _contrive_ anything, Mr Holmes. I joined the Army and did my duty for King and country. Since I am a very competent surgeon, I had no issues finding a good post in Edinburgh and, after a while, here in London.”

“Do not be offended, my dear Sir, I did not intend it as a criticism. I only wondered whether Sir Astley Cooper is au courant.”

“Considering his nephew Bransby has killed a good many people on the operating theatre, he should be glad somebody is saving lives, for a change,” replied John, staring Mycroft in the eye.

He heard Sherlock’s chuckle and when he gazed at him, he saw such a look of pure delight in his eyes, he had to refrain from embracing him there and then.

“I haven’t been long in this city, but I have heard of its unfair practices as regards to the medical community and I most heartily disapprove of them,” John continued, with some fire.

“Yes, yes, I see,” Mycroft pondered, a smile curving his lips.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, brother mine,” Sherlock hissed; he folded the newspaper with nervous hands and stood up suddenly, like a jack in the box.

“I won’t brook any interference in my investigations, not even disguised as _advice_. While I am sure your admiration of Mayo’s ‘Observations on Injuries and Diseases of the Rectum’ is well warranted, I prefer to tread my own path. Speaking of which, why are you here, aside from wishing to ogle Doctor Watson?”

The elder Holmes heaved a deep, frustrated sigh.

“I am not _ogling_ , little brother; I am merely concerned about your well-being.”

His sibling snorted, but he continued:

“Gregory has given me a letter for you.”

John looked at his friend, mouthing ‘Gregory?’ with a puzzled expression.

“Thank Lestrade for me. And now, if you don’t mind, we would like to have our breakfast. I trust not even your barbarian insolence would stand between a man and his first cup of tea of the day.”

Mycroft tapped the point of his cane against the wainscoting, as if to scare any mouse that may be hiding behind it.

“As you like it, brother dear,” he said and, tipping his hat at John, he ambled out of the room.

In the dining room, they sat down at the table on which Mrs Hudson had placed bacon, eggs and toasted bread and butter. While John poured the scolding hot tea into the cups, Sherlock dunked a piece of bread into the thick yolk of his egg, with scornful resolve.

“He always swoops in like a carrion-bloated buzzard,” he said, staring at the morsel of food with distaste. “He wants to direct my life and I won’t stand for it.”

“You are a free agent and don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to,” John replied, attacking his portion of smoked bacon.

“The famous surgeons and the principals of chartered schools won’t implicate their own people; besides, I’ve found that even when my awful brother is right, which he sometimes is, the enterprise loses most of its attraction the moment he’s involved in it.”

The older man laughed heartily.

“Glory must be yours alone,” he chuckled.

“I won’t mind sharing it with you, but Mycroft?” the detective shuddered exaggeratedly.

“What does Lestrade say in that letter?”

Sherlock unfolded said piece of paper and perused it rapidly.

“No luck with the Licence Office, but one of his informers swore to him he knew the owner of the chariot in question, one James Seagrave of, wait for this, Nova Scotia Gardens. Lestrade’s snitch worked for Seagrave’s brother, who manages a violin-string factory.”

“All roads lead to Rome,” quoted John, swallowing his first sip of tea with an air of supreme pleasure.

“Yes,” said the detective, “If Rome was a conglomeration of slums built on slag and rubbish, rife with steam and filth. And before you reply that it wasn’t built in a day, I shall call a moratorium on platitudes.”

“You read my mind.”

“Only partially,” Sherlock admitted, adding more sugar to his tea.

“From what you said about your brother, I wouldn’t have imagined him to be disrespectful to someone’s of Mayo’s standing.”

“Mycroft is a frightful snob. Mayo comes from non-gentry background, so my brother feels entitled to slight his kind whenever the opportunity arises. Besides, the man has an unfortunate lisp, which is conducive to mockery.”

John furrowed his brow.

“Well then, my presence here must offend his sensitivity no end.”

“Isn’t it marvellous?”

“You didn’t ask me to live with you just so you could upset him, did you?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened and his hand reached out to caress his companion’s.

“It didn’t even cross my mind,” he replied.

The doctor moved closer to him so that he could place a kiss on his clean-shaven cheek.

“I didn’t get to wish you good morning properly,” he said, seeking the detective’s lips.

“Good morning,” the young man murmured, returning the embrace.

After what seemed like a blissful way of starting the day, John bestowed one last caress onto his friend’s tangled hair and, clearing his throat, he observed:

“Didn’t you say Mycroft was Lestrade’s partner? The dear Inspector surely does not belong to the aristocracy.”

Sherlock’s lips trembled as he tried to contain a smile.

“That’s an entirely different matter. I’m sure you don’t need my contribution to solve that particular mystery.”

The doctor shifted slightly in his chair and poured himself another cup of tea.

“Yes, right,” he muttered and, as he caught his companion’s gaze, they both erupted in a fit of childish giggles.

When the mirth subsided and more tea had been drunk, John felt finally ready to face the day, with all its challenges.

“Shall we visit Lady Vere first or do you have other plans?” he asked.

“She will be waiting for us, so there’s no need to hurry,” the detective replied, a hint of jealousy still biting at his heart. “The two sisters, on the other hand, won’t know about our existence. If I’m right, Whackett will have ignored our message. He will want to keep his secrets to himself and pretend he’s never met us.”

“Why would he do that? He must predict our intentions.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t try to hamper out efforts. His kind is always spiteful, no matter how unreasonable it may seem to us.”

“You said they live in Kensington, but where exactly?”

“In Gore House, near the Hammersmith Road.”

“Why do I know the name?”

“It used to be a renowned literary salon, at the beginning of the century. Even Byron was said to have been a guest, before he left the country.”

“And soon its walls will contain the magnificent Sherlock Holmes: what a surfeit of geniuses!”

“You are mocking me,” the detective said, pouting

“A little,” the doctor conceded. “But I truly believe one day you will be even more famous than that celebrated poet.”

 

Gore House was a disappointing sight for John: he had expected a luxurious palace, but was confronted with a low, plain, and unpretending building, painted white, and abutting on the roadway. The only features of note were the large bay windows on the ground and first floor, which were surmounted by a balcony with a wrought iron parapet.

The front garden was overgrown with weeds and the skeletal poplars stood in a row along the gate, like soldiers vainly defending an already conquered outpost.

The door knocker was of solid brass and depicted the head of a lion. Sherlock made use of it without hesitating, and after a long wait, they were greeted by an elderly liveried servant with wispy shoulder-length white hair and arthritic hands.

The man took their names and left them to wait in a dark, musty hall, on the midst of which, on a rosewood table, stood an enormous porcelain vase with painted enamel panels and chased gilding encrusted flowers, topped by a stylised gilded rhinoceros.

“If that thing ever falls on someone,” John remarked, arching his eyebrows.

“At least they will have died crushed underneath the weight of art,” quipped his companion.

The servant came back informing them that Miss Rowena Light would receive them in the drawing room.

They passed through badly lit rooms, with creaky floors and empty fireplaces only too emerge into what could only be described as a Regency extravaganza: a vast salon with neoclassic columns and wallpapered walls covered with brass-framed paintings depicting rural landscapes; the numerous items of furniture comprised mahogany-veneered cabinets with ormolu mounts; Roman, Greek, and Egyptian chairs and tables, with winged-lion supports; pilasters headed with sphinxes’ busts and palm leaves. Most incongruous of all was a Japanned sideboard on whose pediment was a serpent entwined around a gilt arrow.

The lady of the house was waiting for them at the centre of the room, contriving to appear even more baroque than her surroundings: dressed in a crimson brocade empire frock with enormous bouffant sleeves, her face was shielded by a veil that descended from a wide-brimmed rust-coloured feathered-hat, like the grate of a confessional.

When she spoke, her voice was melodious and as clear as a silvery chime,

“Mr Holmes, I am extremely glad to meet you. I have heard so much about you,” she exclaimed, extending a petite hand encased in a grey lace glove.

“Miss Light,” said Sherlock, giving it a perfunctory kiss.

After John had been introduced, they were guided towards an elaborate settee of distinctive oriental design.

“This house is full of horrors,” she murmured, and with a deliberate gesture, she removed the veil from her face, folding it over the brim of her hat.

Her face was oddly ageless, her eyes a washed-out blue and her cheeks unlined and the colour of wax. Only her lips were plump and flushed as if life had retreated from all other features and found its sanctuary there.

“What sort of horrors?” asked John.

“Look around you, Sir,” she replied, and as she turned to look at him, the feathers on her hat trembled like live creatures.

“May I enquire about the reason of your visit?”

“I am a great admirer of Swedenborg; I have been told you have acquired his Journal of Dreams,” Sherlock said.

At this odd pronouncement, John’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and Rowena Light’s face was transfigured by excitement.

“Alas, the _Drömboken_ has not been found yet, but his work in the realm of dreams and of the spirit is unassailable. He was a true visionary. He and Mesmer are my personal gods,” the woman explained.

“What does your sister think; does she share your beliefs?” asked the doctor, still a bit puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken.

“Oh, of course!” replied Rowena, adding: “Although, she has her own private predilections which are of a more material nature. I shy away from all that’s vulgar.”

“If I told you the words Life in Death, what would they suggest to you?” Sherlock asked, abruptly. Miss Light did not seem perturbed.

“Perhaps you mean life after death? Heaven and Hell is his most interesting work, don’t you agree? Such an inspiring treatise on the World of Spirits…”

“Do you know a young lady named Emma Clairmont?”

The woman shook her head minutely, not to upset her plumage, and said:

“My sister and I are not part of the _ton_. Outside of our little group of acquaintances, we do lead very secluded lives.”

“Your attire is very striking,” commented John, as if to indicate such choice of garment did not tally with her declaration of a cloistered existence.

“One should never be caught unprepared,” Rowena said, casting a sidelong glance at the detective.

“Were you waiting for someone in particular?” the latter asked.

“Aren’t we always waiting, all of us? Isn’t life merely an endless chain of yearning?”

Before either of the men could reply, behind them a door opened and closed.

Christabel Light was as unlike her sister as winter is from summer.

Clad in a muslin grey dress with a high neckline and tight sleeves, she was wearing her shiny black hair in a low, tight bun. Her delicately modelled face was devoid of any artifice and the skin seemed to be stretched directly across her bones. Her deep-set eyes were of a vivid cornflower shade and contained none of the otherworldly dreaminess of her sister’s. She was lean, spare and – Sherlock judged – would prove a very dangerous adversary.

“Rivers told me a Mr. Sherlock Holmes was here. To what do we owe the honour of your visit, Sir?” she said, giving her cool, dry hand to be kissed with the least possible ceremony.

“We were talking about dear Swedenborg,” her sister explained. “Mr Holmes is a great admirer.”

Christabel studied the detective with a piercing stare that reminded John of his friend’s.

“Not of his later works, I assume. You seem more of a scientist than a spiritualist, if I may venture an assumption.”

Sherlock resolved to speak the truth.

“His work on the neuron and the flying machine is ground-breaking. May I suggest that you share my enthusiasm?”

She hesitated briefly, but then she allowed herself to smile. The detective suspected it didn’t happen often, as her mouth took the appearance of a gash and her eyes stayed serious.

“How very perceptive of you, Mr Holmes; his study of the nervous system and the cerebral cortex was rigorous and unprecedented.”

“And the connection between body and soul,” intervened her sister.

“Yes,” Christabel replied. “But this doesn’t explain why Mr Holmes is paying us a visit.”

“He asked about a girl,” Rowena said.

“A Miss Emma Clairmont; she is interested in spiritual matters and we wondered whether you’ve ever met her,” John explained.

“Life in Death,” the detective added, and a slight cord seemed to pull the black-haired woman straighter; her bloodless countenance caught fire for a brief second, so swiftly that Sherlock almost believed he’d imagined it.

“One hears all manner of incredible things, but one should never stray too far from the traced path,” she replied, cryptically.

“You don’t know her then,” the doctor insisted.

“Not to the best of my recollection,” she said, without looking at him.

“Holywell Mount,” Sherlock said, but this question was obviously expected.

“Part of our inheritance, like this mausoleum; alas, no pecuniary bequest was attached to it, so we are forced to fortify our meagre income by means that can be deemed unsavoury.”

Her sister gasped and immediately covered her mouth with one hand.

“Oh dear Rowena, do not make such a fuss! Mr Holmes already knew; embellishing the truth would have made no difference. Anyway, we never set foot there, so we can’t help you as to what may happen on that wretched plot.”

“I trust you have an administrator?”

“Yes, our solicitor, Mr. Lewis Jennings, deals with all our financial matters. He’s elderly and going blind, but his mind is as sharp as ever.”

John doubted that an old lawyer would constitute a worthy barrier between Whackett and his dastardly schemes.

“One last question, Miss Light: as we were led into this room, I happened to notice a jar on a shelf,” the detective said.

Rowena’s mouth twitched in distaste, but Christabel’s eyes shone a little brighter.

“It contains a section of the intestines of a sheep. I purchased it from Mr. Brookes in Blenheim Steps.”

“Mr Brookes is a famous anatomist,” said John.

The woman’s face was as still as a mask.

“Is he? Fancy the amount of things one doesn’t know,” she replied, and stood up to mark the ending to the conversation.

“What a pleasure,” Rowena murmured, as she rolled the veil down and performed a small curtsy.

“It most certainly was,” replied Sherlock, staring her sister in the eye.

 

“That woman was lying,” John said, as soon as they were out of the gates of Gore House.

“And that horrid place, with jars of intestines lying about,” he added, grimacing.

“Oh, that part I didn’t mind,” the detective replied, quite taken with the idea of starting his own collection of pickled organs, “Although I agree that Christabel Light is hiding something. But you are keeping information from me, too; not voluntarily, dear chap, I know; but I was wondering why you’d be offered a corpse when dissecting dead people is not your occupation. You don’t study death; you save lives.”

John beamed at his friend and, as soon as they were safe in the confines of the cab, kissed him forcefully on the mouth; Sherlock shrieked in surprise, which made both of them laugh.

“You are astounding,” the doctor marvelled. “Yes, well, Daniel was not at work that day and the lad who’d replaced him couldn’t tell left from right, so he came to look for me, rather than John Hilton, the demonstrator of anatomy at Guy’s; satisfied?”

“Very,” the detective replied and, after giving Billy the address of Lady Vere, he inched closer to his companion and took another kiss.


	8. Unlocking Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go a-visiting.  
> If you have issues with pickled animals, better look away. No graphic descriptions, but they are there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Brookes's Museum in Blenheim Steps and the Vivarium on the Strand really existed.  
> Note 2: I did not invent the elephant incident. It really happened, poor creature :(

_“Love means setting aside walls, fences, and unlocking doors and saying 'Yes.' One can be in paradise by simply saying 'yes' to this moment.”_

_Divine Love and Wisdom - Emanuel Swedenborg_

 

* * *

 

Lady Vere’s residence was in the quiet part of Mayfair, away from the hustle and bustle of Grosvenor Square. It was also infinitely more welcoming than Gore House.

The imposing front door was opened by a square-shouldered young man who’d evidently been a soldier at some point in his career.

Sherlock was briefly reminded of John’s uniform and quickly suppressed the reaction it evoked.

They crossed a white, luminous hall and were lead to a spacious salon with two fireplaces and a majestic ceiling of carved timber with mother of pearl inlays.

Their client was sitting at her writing desk, steel pen swiftly running across the page.

She made a suitably decorative portrait, with her peacock blue morning dress with gigot sleeves and the mass of coppery ringlets artfully arranged to frame her face and neck.

“Dear Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, I was eagerly awaiting your visit,” she exclaimed, gliding towards them, with a frank smile on her unpainted lips.

“This is for you, Doctor” she said, handing John a copy of The Bandit of Bohemia. “I wrote a few words on the flyleaf; I hope you won’t judge me too impertinent.”

“This is a dream come true,” he replied, beaming; next to him, Sherlock strived to appear unaffected.

“The temperature in here is quite high,” he remarked; the glint in his eye was eloquent enough, even if one disregarded the strangeness of the comment.

Lady Vere’s reply did not disappoint.

“I suffer from a troubling skin ailment and my physician has advised me to avoid cold and humid conditions.”

“I see,” commented Sherlock, not as happy with himself as he thought he would be.

The woman rang a bell and, almost at once, tea was brought in.

As they sat on the comfortable divan, sipping the exquisite brew, the woman asked them if they had any news.

“Have you ever met Rowena and Christabel Light?” the detective enquired.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

“They reside in Kensington, in Gore House to be precise.”

“Oh yes, I know of the house of course; it used to be quite renowned at one point; I seem to recall that it’s in rather dilapidated conditions now. Why, do you think they know where Emma is?”

“Are you familiar with Swedenborg’s work?”

“Yes, of course. I’m not sure I admire his theories about the afterlife and the angels, but,” she suddenly stopped, as if hit by lighting. “Oh, yes, I recall now; when we were still in Lincolnshire, Emma became quite obsessed and devoured all she could find of his; it was a young girl’s passion; as you know, they are like summer rains: violent and never long-lasting.”

“Maybe you are mistaken and those books she read are at the centre of her disappearance. Did she start sleep-walking at the same time?”

Lady Vere mused a little space, during which her hand moved up to her arm – which was clearly bothering her - then fell back into her lap.

“Yes,” she murmured, her eyes lost in a reverie, “it was about the same period. I never thought the two incidents were connected. Why are you asking me about Swedenborg, Mr Holmes?”

“As you said, he was interested in the afterlife. The Misses Light are extremely taken with his work. In addition to that, they own a plot of land which is used as a private burial ground.”

“And they know Emma?”

“We feel they may not have been entirely sincere with us,” John replied, in a soothing tone.

“Could you show us a likeness of your sister?” the detective asked.

“Yes, yes, of course. How remiss of me! And as an author, it is almost unforgivable,” she tried to jest, but her lips trembled.

She guided them into a smaller sitting room entirely upholstered in the same shade as her dress. On the wall above the dainty escritoire was a portrait in the style of Greuze: the young girl was depicted with her head slightly thrown back and her full red lips parted to suggest high emotion. The tendrils of fair hair seemed to caress the pale soft skin, while her pure blue gaze evoked the purest sort of contemplation. She was dressed in white and had a creamy scarf loosely wrapped around her shapely shoulders.

Helen Vere had been right: Emma Clairmont was a true beauty, one that did not rely on baroque exaggeration and that was intensified by means of subtraction.

“She is very pretty,” remarked John, while Sherlock examined the room for clues on the personality of their client: a tidy, truthful nature, good albeit not original taste and a strong, almost manly sort of intellect. She would find much in common with Christabel Light and would soon grow tired of the latter’s sister.

“I wonder if you had time to write the account of what you already told us and whether you remembered anything further.”

“Yes, I have it here,” she said, plucking a pile of papers from an enamelled box. “I wrote down some of the things she told me of late, but none of them strikes me as relevant. I gather it may be different for someone like yourself; after all, part of your job is to find connections between seemingly unrelated events.”

“Yes, and detachment also helps. I can learn to know your sister without the bias of affection or familiarity. If you please, I would like to inspect her rooms now.”

“Of course, please follow me,” she said and added, with a strained smile:

“You will have to excuse that I went through her things myself first. I did so when she disappeared and afterwards, I asked the servants to leave everything as it was.”

“It is of no consequence. What matters to me may be of no immediate interest to other people.”

John cleared his throat.

“What he means to say is that he…”

“… he finds connections where most people wouldn’t. Yes, I understand,” Lady Vere concluded.

“What about money; did she have any on her?” the doctor enquired.

“A total of one hundred and fifty pounds was cashed from her personal account days before she left; nothing after that, but that’s more than enough to live on for quite some time.”

Emma’s bedroom was as spartan as a nun’s cell: a plain queen-size bed, a bedside table, an armoire with matching chest of drawers and a desk complete with armchair. The paintings on the wall depicted still lives, with no concessions to human or sacred representations.

“There are no books in here; did she have a private sitting room?”

Helen Vere shook her head.

“No, but there is a well-stocked library in the house; not that it would have mattered, since she had lost all interest in the written word.”

Sherlock was meticulously searching the place, while John tried to distract their client, to avoid her feeling distressed at that necessary violation.

“Did she read your stories?” he asked, and the woman laughed.

“She tried, but she concluded she couldn’t overcome the sense that she was peering into my soul. I tried explaining my imagination had little to do with my soul, but she wouldn’t be convinced.”

They heard a noise and when they turned, saw that Sherlock was holding a scrap of paper in his hand.

“I found this tucked underneath a pile of blouses.”

He showed it to Lady Vere who seemed unimpressed.

“Yes, I did see it, but I thought it was of no importance. She was given this by someone at a soiree. This person, she said, thought it might interest her to visit the place, but it didn't.”

“And yet she kept this paper.”

“Yes, she did.”

“And you don’t know who gave it to her?”

“I didn’t see the person and Emma never told me.”

The detective showed it to his companion.

It was the name and address of Joshua Brookes’s Museum in Blenheim Steps.

“That’s where...?” John said, before Sherlock indicated that he should not say another word.

“I think we should pay a visit to Mr Brookes,” the young man stated.

“I leave everything entirely to your discretion,” the woman replied, shaking his and John’s hands firmly.

 

“You haven’t been long in London, so you may not have heard about the elephant incident.”

“What?”

They had decided to leave the carriage and take a walk in the frosty air to get some exercise; they were traversing a buzzing Oxford Street when Sherlock made that rather startling comment.

“My dear, I’m not going funny in the head; it really happened. The poor beast escaped and was chased around central London only to be killed by armed forces and left rotting in the Strand for days. Mr Brookes dissected it in public. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Christabel Light owns a portion of it.”

“You needn’t sound so excited, my darling.”

Sherlock preened at the endearment.

“Well, there is no better way to study the theories propounded by the likes of Swedenborg than by observing the organs up close; see how they relate to one another; how the nerves and vessels and tissue all come together to create a functioning apparatus.”

“I bet you and Miss Light would enjoy spending time together,” the blond man said, experiencing a certain unease.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock replied with a grin. “I fancy a certain friend of mine would not approve.”

“Surely a friend would never deprive you of something that affords you pleasure.”

“Maybe not,” the young man said. “But I'd rather share my time with him than anybody else.”

John squeezed his companion’s gloved hand so hard he left indents in the leather.

They exchanged a look filled with promises and descended the steps that led to Brookes’s Museum.

The door was opened by a young man with of consumptive appearance: his hands were the colour of rotten cabbage and his green eyes were burning with fever.

“We allow visitors by appointment only.”

“I’m a surgeon and have long been an admirer of Mr Brookes’s. Is he your father, by any chance?” John said, half-lying.

“My uncle; my father owns the Vivarium on the Strand.”

“The one from where the elephant escaped. That was a mighty scandal, albeit an entertaining one,” Sherlock enthused.

It was evidently the wrong thing to say.

The young Brookes’s eyes became even more feverish and his hands curled into fists.

“It wasn’t my father’s elephant. It was Mr Cross’s menagerie that it bolted from. That was never reported correctly. We tried to have the newspapers rectify their mistake, but they only buried the correction in the fourth page and in the smallest of prints.”

“Terrible people, journalists,” John commiserated.

“Besides, I admire the scientific endeavour of your uncle: preserving thousand of specimens is no small feat.”

The man’s face relaxed into a more sedate expression.

“There are six thousand of them, to be precise. Unfortunately, my uncle is not here. He went to visit a colleague and said he would not be back until later this evening. I’m Rowland Brookes, by the way.”

“Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor John Watson,” the detective replied. “We would be grateful if you could show us the collection.”

Brookes sighed and wrapping the scarf he was wearing around his scrawny neck a little tighter, he let them inside.

The stench of rank meat hit them like a mallet.

“Potassium nitrate?” asked Sherlock, as John realised he missed his operating table.

“Yes, that’s how the subjects are preserved.”

“But your uncle is no longer teaching anatomy, is he?”

“Not as such,” Rowland Brookes replied, vaguely. He handed them a gas lamp each and, after traversing a dank room whose floor squelched suspiciously at their every step, they went up a steep wooden staircase. The windows they passed along the way were all obscured as their glass panes had been painted over to prevent people from looking inside.

The first room they entered left both men open-mouthed from the shock.

Inside an enormous glass container filled with preserving liquid floated an enormous whale. The cetacean seemed to glare at them, its cold eyes like marbles encased in the vast expanse of its body.

“This is magnificent!” the detective exclaimed.

“Wait till you see the next room.”

True to the Brookes’s word, they were to be even more stunned by the gigantic presence of a dead yet perfectly true-to-life elephant.

They circled around the glass container and admired the proportions and nobility of the pachyderm.

“How did you get it inside here?” asked the detective.

“Look up, Mr Holmes,” the young man said and, as they both gazed at the ceiling, they realised it consisted of painted-over glass panes, much like the windows.

“Very ingenious,” the detective commented, genuinely impressed.

“I happen to think so too,” Brookes murmured, gazing at Sherlock like he was seeing him for the first time. “But I bet there’s something you will like even more.”

As he said this, he placed one hand on the detective’s arm.

The adjacent room was filled with cabinets on whose shelves were crammed umpteen jars, containing a veritable miscellany of specimens, ranging from stillborn babies to small animals and human parts showing rare pathological conditions.

Still holding onto a dazzled Sherlock, Brookes led them to a secluded niche, where a glass container stood separated from the rest.

“It’s a section of Bonaparte’s stomach,” he said, in a reverential tone. “You see that white spot? That’s a fungal growth.”

“How did your uncle get his hands on it?” the detective whispered, his eyes pinned to the valuable specimen.

“I’m afraid it’s a secret, but I may be persuaded to reveal it to the right person,” Brookes said, letting his hand trail down to Sherlock’s wrist.

“How much would it cost us?” asked John, moving closer to his companion’s side.

“I wasn’t talking about money.”

“I know, but I was,” he said, looking pointedly at where the man’s sickly-coloured hand was touching Sherlock’s.

“Oh, I see,” Rowland replied, a brief flash of hatred and fear in his gaze.

“This is impressive indeed,” the detective said, back to his aloof self, “But it’s not why we came here to see Mr Joshua Brookes. For reasons that are, as you will understand, to remain confidential, we need to obtain a list of your visitors. I could get a warrant from the Covent Garden police, but I’d rather do this in a more amicable manner.”

As fear took hold of his countenance, Brookes took a step back, almost dropping his gasp lamp as he did so.

“Why, what's happened?” he stuttered. “I’m certain we never did anything wrong, nothing that’s against the law, I swear.”

“We only want to know if a certain person has been here, that’s all.”

“We don’t keep a register, but perhaps if you tell me the name of this gentleman…”

“A lady, not a gentleman; her name is Emma Clairmont; about your age, fair hair and blue eyes, pretty face,” John replied.

Brookes regained some of his composure.

“I have never heard of the lady nor have I ever set eyes on her. Ladies never come here.”

“And yet we have met one who purchased a sample from your uncle.”

“Impossible,” he replied, sounding very firm. “We are not in the habit of selling our specimens. They are here for the benefit of scientists and surgeons, not to be taken home as freakish curios.”

“Are you saying the lady lied to us?” said John.

“Yes, no, well, she may have been mistaken.”

“We will come back to speak to your uncle. Tell him we will be here tomorrow morning and that he should tell us the truth, unless he wishes Scotland Yard to come and take a closer look.”

The man’s greenish cheeks turned a shade paler.

“It won’t be necessary. Uncle Joshua has nothing to hide.”

“And what about you?” asked Sherlock, piercing him with his cold, assessing stare.

“I don’t know anything; I usually work at the Vivarium, with my father.”

“You should be in bed with a bowl of steaming broth,” said John. “This is not the place for you to be.”

“I’m not sick,” Brooke replied, just as his frame was shaken by a shudder.

“You look like death,” the detective said, “Life in Death.”

Suddenly, the man’s wan face became a battlefield of conflicting emotions: he was valiantly trying to remain indifferent, but terror paralysed his featured and he was forced to bite his lips to keep them from trembling.

“What is it that you are hiding?” Sherlock murmured in Brookes’s ear. Like a puppet on strings, Rowland’s limbs were now unnaturally rigid and his movements strained and jerky.

“Nothing,” he squeaked. “Please go, I have nothing more to say.”

“Tell your uncle,” John said, as they were leaving, “Do not forget.”

The door was shut behind them, and no more parting words were said.

 

“The green-eyed monster,” Sherlock declared, as they set foot inside 221b Baker Street.

“Yes, I concur. That boy was not unlike one of his ghastly specimens.”

“I was talking about jealousy,” the detective continued, as he unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat, “Yours, to be precise.”

“I was merely concerned about your health. He was obviously suffering from some bacterial fever; one can never be too cautious.”

“Is that so, Doctor?” murmured the young man, slowly undoing the knot of his cravat.

“Of course,” John replied, moving closer, “And in order to preserve your energy, may I offer you some help with that collar of yours?”

Sherlock smirked then opened his arms in a gesture of surrender.

“I would very much like to divest you of your outer garments, unbutton your shirt and caress you all over,” John murmured.

“Yes,” the young man replied, softly.

“And after that, perchance,” the doctor continued, his mouth on his friend’s jaw and his hands deftly undoing the various bows and buttons that separated him from his prize.

“Yes, please, yes.”

After what seemed an interminable stretch of time, he was at last holding his lover’s unclad torso within the compass of his hands, and his mouth was free to roam from the alabaster throat down to the sweet dip of the navel. Above him, Sherlock was making the most delicious noises, but it was only when he breathed another “Yes,” that John knew the door was finally unlocked.


	9. If Thou Wert Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief domestic interlude  
> There will be sex between men, so if that's not your cup of Earl Grey look away now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Lancet quote about the King's College anatomy students has been taken from The Italian Boy by Sarah Wise

_“If I were loved, as I desire to be,_

_What is there in the great sphere of the earth,_

_And range of evil between death and birth,_

_That I should fear,--if I were loved by thee?_

_All the inner, all the outer world of pain_

_Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine_

_As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,_

_Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine”_

_Excerpt of sonnet by A. L. Tennyson to Arthur Hallam_

* * *

 

Certainly John’s room didn’t possess the magnificent opulence of Lady Vere’s salon or the intriguing secrecy of the Brookesian Museum yet its ceiling was whirling above Sherlock’s head, like a dervish. The light from the candle on the bedside table initiated a dance of shadows that increased the sense of dizziness he was experiencing.

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,” he thought, only to realise he’d declaimed it out loud.

“What is it, my dear?” murmured John, as he wiped the detective’s groin with a linen cloth.

“I may be a little drunk,” he replied, and tried to move his head, left and the right, but the dervish swished around him like wine inside a tumbler.

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol.”

“Is that really true though?” he insisted, feeling another twinge of desire shoot through his bowels. “What do you know about alchemy, John?”

“Enough to be certain that you can transmute semen into wine,” said the doctor, with a fond smile. “You just need to rest a-while.”

“It’s only afternoon and anyway I seldom sleep,” Sherlock replied, just as his treacherous mouth decided to yawn.

John ignored his protestations and took him in his arms, pulling the covers up over their bodies. The embers were dying, but the bed was warm and the detective felt strangely lax and debauched.

“Tell me, my darling, how you chanced upon the idea of Swedenborg being at the centre of the intrigue?” the doctor said, kissing the back of his lover’s head, as he tightened his hold around the man’s slim waist.

“It was a sudden illumination: Life in Death, his interest in seeking a link between body and soul, his book Heaven and Hell. I wasn’t sure, but it was worth a try.”

“You guessed.”

“I never guess, not as such. The Misses Light are involved with spiritualism, remember? And what is the most celebrated author on the subject? They had to know of him, at least.”

“Did you study his works at Cambridge?”

The young man snorted in amusement.

“In a way,” he said, in between yawns. “I did some experiments with metals and corrosive substances.”

“Oh dear Lord,” John exclaimed, “You weren’t trying to…?”

“…To turn semen into gold or something of the kind? No, of course not! I’m a man of science not a witch doctor,” he slurred, trying in vain to keep his eyes open.

“You are splendid, just splendid,” the blond man whispered into the mass of raven curls.

“For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.” Sherlock quoted, and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the trousers placket had been undone, and the smallclothes unbuttoned, John found himself in a quandary, which was resolved by the detective walking in the direction of his companion’s room.

“I want to lie upon your bed,” he said, as they reached the closed door.

The transition between that moment and the next was a blur in the doctor’s mind; he only recalled that he found himself removing Sherlock’s polished boots and his stockings, and then the rest of his garments.

He’d already seen the youth’s naked body in the wash-room, but this was an utterly different matter: having Sherlock betwixt his sheets meant he wouldn’t be able to not imagine him there every time he went to bed.

“Here,” he murmured, fixing the pillows so that the young man’s head could repose on them. The detective was silent, but his eyes observed everything around him with their usual acuity.

John managed to undress without once taking his gaze off his lover’s body, exhibiting a restraint that was no testament at all to his hunger. He was about to crawl between Sherlock’s splayed legs to finally taste him, when the detective’s request almost felled him.

“I want to have you in my mouth,” he husked, staring at his lover’s erection which, at the sound of that divine voice, swelled even more.

“You said you preferred that I took care of you.”

The detective licked his lips and emitted a lusty sigh, which ended up in John’s mouth; a wet, deep kiss followed another and then another, again and again. As skin stroked skin, it would have been as natural as drawing breath to simply let nature take its course, but it was not what Sherlock had demanded.

The detective tried to explain, as his lips were being bitten and his tongue devoured:

“It amounts to the same thing,” he gasped, as talented fingers rubbed his nipples. “Ah, yes, ah, I need you to take my mouth in that manner.”

The sense of those words burnt John’s insides, darkening his sight and sending his heart on a mad cavalcade. As he recovered his breath, he saw the young man sit upright against the plush headboard and then slide down a little, inviting his lover to straddle his chest and feed him his erection. The youth’s eyes were hooded and his cheeks flushed; he was breathing fast and shallow and his hands were restless, undecided whether to administer pleasure or refrain from it.

In that interlude, John understood what the young man needed.

“Hold me close,” he ordered, and as he felt the detective’s hands on his loins, he smeared the soaked head of his member across the parted lips.

“Lick it,” he demanded and nearly spent as he felt sultry warmth engulf him.

From the on, it resembled a frantic erotic dream: not a sequence of events, but lashes of red-hot bliss followed by the tenderness of shared gazes; screams and moans counterpointed by obscene slurping sounds; John’s fingers pulling at black curls and Sherlock’s digging into his lover’s buttocks; the sweat on the youth’s brow and down his throat; everything was smell, taste and sound; and such a surfeit of images that could have lasted John a lifetime. The words that followed though, those were not the result but the cause of that intensity.

When he felt John’s climax surge, and uncaring of the man’s warnings, Sherlock sucked him down to the hilt, choking a little; he opened his eyes, looking conquered and sated and happy.

“Oh my love,” John cried, “My love,” he repeated, caressing the hollowed cheeks.

Pulse after pulse, he couldn’t stop his release; it seemed to never end; when he made to pull away, the detective’s eye rolled back in his head, and it was then that John saw that Sherlock's pleasure had crested too, untended.

“My darling,” he whispered, and lay him down delicately.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, John was murmuring something he couldn’t discern and cleaning him up with a cloth; the room was a stupendous diorama and the only words in his head were snatches of Coleridge.

 

 

“This was a jagged blade and that one was caused by a burn,” Sherlock said, examining the map of John’s naked and injured skin.

The doctor slowly woke up to the ticklish sensation of a finger prodding his body.

“Yes, well, I know it’s not a pleasing sight,” he said, caressing the length of his lover’s back.

“Oh, but you are quite wrong,” replied the young man, reprising his inspection. “It is most interesting, unlike the blankness of mine.”

“We shall have to disagree, my dear.”

“May I ask you about the origin of these wounds?”

John did not enjoy recalling the heat of battle; the filth and blood; the sense of utter chaos and the shame of defeat; the screams ad wails and then the horror of the governor’s death and consequent beheading.

“Is it true that the Ashanti ate his heart?” asked the detective, reading his companion’s mind, as he so frequently did. The doctor shivered and was about to reach out for the bed-covers, but Sherlock embraced him instead; despite the tenderness of the gesture, he was in no doubt that an answer was still eagerly awaited.

“There was a small group of us and we marched straight into a trap,” John whispered. “Ten were killed; I was amongst the forty that were injured; few were unscathed. It was terrifying: the savagery of it all, the unnecessary brutality; in the end, we had to retreat. But it was after that, as we engaged in the Battle of Nsamankow that I realised our fate was sealed: we soon ran out of ammunitions; we were vastly outnumbered and I regret to say that many fled as soon as they heard gunfire. I will never forget the beating of the drums, as we belted out God Save the King.”

The detective tightened his grip, but when John looked into those feline eyes, he saw such undimmed curiosity and youthful enthusiasm as to melt the sternest of hearts.

“McCarthy and his ensign were wounded; rather than submit to capture, the governor shot himself. What followed was in fact the Ashanti's way to show respect to the enemy.”

“And was his skull really encrusted with gems and used as a drinking-cup?”

“Yes, or so I have been told,” John sighed, kissing the young man’s frowning brow. "After that, I was sent back as I was too ill to be of any use."

“I’m exceedingly glad you survived,” Sherlock said, angling his face to seek his lover’s mouth with his.

“You are thinking about getting hold of a skull, aren’t you?” the doctor asked, as he licked inside his friend’s mouth.

“Yes,” murmured the youth, making John chuckle.

“And perchance purchasing one from Doctor Brookes?”

“My methods are not so predictable, my dear friend.”

They shared breaths once more, revelling in the pleasure of the act.

“Do you think Christabel Light told us a lie with regards to the sample in that jar?”

“No,” replied the detective, drawing circles on his friend’s chest, “It was the same type of glass container; the most obvious explanation would be that Rowland Brookes didn’t know, or want us to know, that their samples are for sale.”

“He almost fainted when you mentioned Life in Death.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “It’s almost as if somebody had threatened him and Christabel Light with such grave reprisals that would be too horrible to even contemplate.”

“What are we doing next?”

“Do you mean?” the young man said, gazing down at where their bodies where entwined.

John erupted in raucous laughter.

“No,” he choked, “Although I won’t deny the lure of your unsubtle invitation, I meant who are we going to visit; the chariot driver, perhaps?”

“We shall,” Sherlock replied, waving his hand to indicate he had more important things to do. “First, I need some time alone, to think.”

“I trust you are aware I did not mean that as a rejection,” John said, cupping the young man’s nape with his hand and squeezing lightly.

“Oh, I don’t need to trust you, my dear; I have objective proof,” the detective smirked, pressing his abdomen against the hardened _object_ in question.

“As long as you won’t dream of putting that in a jar,” John quipped then kissed the laughter from the young man’s mouth.

 

John was reading the evening news and enjoying a cigarette, when Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a tray laden with enticing dishes.

“Let me help you,” he said.

After they had disposed of the lot, he saw that the elderly lady was hesitating on the threshold.

“That boy needs feeding up,” she declared, an affronted look on her minute face.

“I can’t force him to eat.”

She clicked her tongue and narrowed her eyes.

“Well, you will have to do something, won’t you? I imagined that being an ex-soldier and a doctor, you’d find a way.”

“I will do my best,” he replied, smiling. “Wait, how do you know about my past?” he asked. The woman gave him a pitying look.

“Pardon my insolence, dear fellow, but you’ll have to do better than that,” she said, before she left the room.

Sherlock had been shut in his study for an hour or so and when he emerged from it, John was feasting on steak and roast potatoes.

“Mummeries,” he said, making his entrance with his usual flair for the theatrical, dressing gown a-swirling.

“No, it’s beef, I believe,” replied the doctor, cheerfully.

“Very funny,” sneered the detective, plucking a potato from the man’s plate and taking a bite off it. “Remember how Tom Trader described the fellows who were carrying the body? He said they looked like monks. Now, who does the Lancet describe in those terms?”

“Sit down and keep me company,” the doctor said. “I’m afraid I will have to cover myself with ignominy: I seldom read the Lancet; I work long hours and when I’m not on duty, I prefer to divert my mind with unrelated topics.”

The young man sat down in a huff; he wasn’t at all interested in comestibles, since he’d already had his tea and scones; he would only taste a little bit of what John was having, just a few morsels wouldn’t slow him down, he decided.

“You should never spurn the possibility of learning more about your own profession,” he chided, “You'll never know what progress is being made if you don’t keep up with new discoveries. The study of physiognomy, for instance, is greatly helpful with regards to the character and tendencies of a person.”

“It is pseudo science, same as phrenology,” said John. “Have some wine.”

He poured the liquid in the glass and handed it to his friend, who frowned and observed it with diffidence.

“It’s only wine, no transmutation has occurred,” the doctor explained, winking as he saw the colour mounting on the young man’s cheeks.

“The two are wildly different: while you can’t tell a criminal by the shape of his skull, you may identify the extent of his depravity by examining his features.”

“Perhaps,” John conceded, “But I would not want to pass judgement on a fellow human being while basing my surmises on the height of their forehead or the depth of their eye-sockets.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Sherlock said, and convinced his friend did not notice, he stole half a steak from the man’s plate. “Anyway, the Lancet described as ‘disgusting mummeries’ the attire of the anatomy students at King’s College, which must indicate that the cap and gown they are wearing could well be mistaken by a boy for the cassock of a monk.”

“By Jove, my dear,” the blond exclaimed, taking advantage of his own surprise to push a handful of potatoes onto Sherlock’s plate. “That may well be right; in that case, that may mean that what the boy saw were men masquerading as anatomy students. That would distract the attention from the usual crowd of snatchers and place it elsewhere; the Medical Establishment is already in trouble as it is.”

With as much nonchalance as he could affect, Sherlock chewed and swallowed, washing down his purloined food with the wine he had never meant to drink.

If only he could become a magician and do away with these crass practices, he thought, wistfully.

“We should go and see that Seagrave fellow, and the night is probably the ideal time, as there’s no business at this hour in winter for such a trade as his. We could go back to St. Leonard’s after that.”

“What, to visit the scene of the crime?” asked John, hiding a smile.

“What crime?”

“Our first encounter”

“You, my dear, are a true romantic”

“So says the man who quotes poetry while in the throes of passion”

The detective coughed to hide his embarrassment and as an excuse to imbibe more wine.

“Here,” John said, “have the rest of the potatoes. I’m going to prepare for our little excursion.”

“I’m quite full, I assure you, my dear,” Sherlock replied, but as the man walked away, he attacked the rest of his dinner with gusto.

 


	10. The Vampyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to Nova Scotia Gardens. What a life they do lead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: There really was a violin-string factory in Princes Street  
> Note 2: During the trial for the murder of the Italian boy, one of the witnesses cut his throat rather than go to court. Thankfully, he survived.  
> Note 3: Very little is known of the Shakespeare theatre. It seems to have started as an equestrian theatre, and by the early 1820s was known for its musical entertainments, which on at least one occasion featured the famous clown, Grimaldi.   
> Note 4: The Curtain Theatre was an Elizabethan playhouse located in Hewett Street, Shoreditch (part of the modern London Borough of Hackney), just outside the City of London. It opened in 1577, and continued staging plays until 1624.  
> A reconstruction of the Curtain Theatre features in the 1998 film Shakespeare in Love.

_“His lordship seemed quite changed; he no longer appeared that apathetic being who had so astonished Aubrey; but as soon as his convalescence began to be rapid, he again gradually retired into the same state of mind, and Aubrey perceived no difference from the former man, except that at times he was surprised to meet his gaze fixed intently upon him, with a smile of malicious exultation playing upon his lips: he knew not why, but this smile haunted him. During the last stage of the invalid's recovery, Lord Ruthven was apparently engaged in watching the tideless waves raised by the cooling breeze, or in marking the progress of those orbs, circling, like our world, the moveless sun..”_

_Excerpt from The Vampyre by John Polidori_

 

 

* * *

 

The violin-string factory was in Princes Street to the south of Nova Scotia Gardens and, just outside it, was a stinking puddle that was at least five feet wide and, by the look of it, rather deep.

“It’s disgraceful,” John observed, “This part of the East End has been left to rot; unpaved, unlit and undrained; little wonder so many criminals congregate here.”

“When I was a child, I used to play the violin. My father had a Stradivari, but quite wisely, never let me handle it,” Sherlock said, plucking at invisible strings with the fingers of his left hand.

“And you no longer play?”

“Seldom,” the detective replied, “Music helped me quieten my mind’s processes.”

“I assume you consider it a bad thing.”

“No exactly, but I chose to not rely on external help.”

“I thought that’s what I was.”

The young man smiled brightly and replied:

“You and the skull, once I get my hands on it”

“I shall lock up all my scalpels, as a preventive measure,” the doctor replied, with a grin.

The cottage of the Seagrave family was typical for that side of town: two upstairs rooms, one downstairs parlour, a smaller room housing the staircase and a wash-house extension.

In the moonlit darkness, the two men briefly surveyed the back-garden, finding it long and narrow, unkempt and easily accessible by jumping over a low, rickety fence.

The door was a flimsy sheet of chipped wood and even from outside, they could hear the voices of two men arguing.

“Who’s there?” shouted a cockney voice imbued with smoke and ale.

They had previously agreed they would use their real identities, in this instance.

“My name’s Sherlock Holmes and my friend is Doctor John Watson. I am a detective and he’s a surgeon. We need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Got nowt to say to you; go away!”

“You have been seen transporting a dead body; the New Police have your name and the licence of your chariot in their books. You better let us in.”

“What’s you done?” said the other voice.

“None of your damn business,” grumbled Seagrave.

They heard the sound of heavy steps approaching and then the door was flung open so violently it almost flew off its hinges.

Seagrave was a short and stocky man, with hands disproportionately large and covered in warts; the skin of his cheeks and nose was riddled with broken capillaries and his eyes were like black buttons stuffed inside folds of saggy skin; his head was bald and shiny like a polished door-knob. When he spoke, they saw that his mouth was missing half of its teeth, at least.

His companion, probably his brother judging by the similarity of countenance, sat at the table drinking from a pewter mug.

“Leave us alone,” Seagrave said, and the other man shook his head, drained his mug and stumbled towards the door at the far side of the parlour.

“I got nowt to hide,” the old man said, sitting down on a bench by the table. The room was dark and cold and it took all of Sherlock’s will-power to sit on the dirt-encrusted bench. There was a stench in the air that told of rank meat, sweat and sedimented excretions of both animal and human provenance.

Whatever family Seagrave had, they were not devoted to cleanliness.

“In this case, you won’t object to answering our questions,” John said, valiantly sitting down by his friend’s side.

“You were seen on the 8th of this month in Farringdon. You were hired by two men attired like monks to carry a body. We were told the destination address was in the environs of the Kingsland Road, which would tally with the fact you live here. Like our witness said, not many drivers would accept to venture that far from central London, but one who lived close by might accept the fare and be done for the day. Where did they ask you to take the body?”

“I know nowt about no ‘body’!”

“Oh, come, come my dear fellow; do not play games with us. Snatchers transport dead bodies all the time and they can hardly do it without the help of chariots and hackney coaches.”

“I don’t know no snatchers; I take fares and as long as they pay me fair and square I don’t go poking my nose into things as not concern me.”

Sherlock took a sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the blackened surface of the table.

“You can preserve your dignity; I don’t care for it, but what I do need to know is where you took those men. Better tell us than the Police, I should think.”

The man’s pouch-like jowls trembled and his eyes widened in terror.

“I’d cut my throat sooner than see the Charlies.”

“It won’t be necessary, dear chap,” said John, in a soothing tone, “Just tell us where you left them.”

“Them grabber types are dangerous; they wouldn’t think twice to stick a knife in my back or throw me into a well.”

Sherlock frowned and his eyes glittered, even in that scarcely lit hovel.

“Why would you say that; why mention a well?”

“No reason,” Seagrave replied, trying to mask his fear with impudence.

“The knife in the back I can well understand, but the well is too much of a far-fetched notion for a sensible fellow like yourself,” continued the detective, “Come on, out with it!”

“It’s just old women’s gossip-like,” muttered the man. “There’s a well by the factory, at the bottom of the alley that leads onto Princes Street. Someone said they sees a bundle being taken out of the well and carried away.”

“It could have been anything,” suggested John.

The man stared at his ungainly hands for a moment then clicked his tongue.

“Could be, but someone said they found a shawl and a petticoat in the privy by the well.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know!”

“Who was this someone who saw all these goings-on: your brother, perchance?”

“I says I don’t know.”

John regarded the man directly in the eyes and addressed him with soldierly authority.

“Listen here, this is very important: this bundle in the well may have been a lady and it may be that those found in the privy were her garments. Where are these items of clothing now?”

Seagrave’s hands shook so that he had to clasp them together like a supplicant in prayer.

“I swear to you gentlemen that I don’t know. One hears thing around here, but my brother, he knows nowt about any of this; he manages the strings factory, has no time for idle gossip.”

“Perhaps you heard about it over at The Birdcage,” Sherlock insinuated.

“Yes, that’s as it may be,” the man said, nodding and scratching his bald head.

“You still haven’t told us where you took those men.”

“But that’s why I’m sure you gentlemen will believe me when I say those men cannot have been them snatchers: they asked me to stop at the Shakespeare in Curtain Road. Why would grabbers take a body to the theatre?” he declared, triumphantly.

They cajoled and threatened, but could not get anything more out of the frightened old man. The full story, according to him, was that he’d heard one or more people talk about a bundle being retrieved from the well in Princes Road and that a few items of lady’s clothes had been found in the nearby privy. On 8th January, two heavily disguised men had hired his services from Farringdon to Curtain Road, paid him what he asked, including a tip, and that was the end of his contribution to the investigation; at least for the moment being.

 

“Why indeed would they bring a corpse to the theatre?” John said, as he helped Sherlock dust down the back of his cloak. The debris left on their garments was negligible compared to the reek of filth and offal that still stung their nostrils. Even he who, as a doctor, was used to the stench of death, found it hard to shake off.

“We shall soon find out,” the detective replied.

The walk wouldn’t have been too strenuous, but the pools of muck they would have had to wade through convinced them to use their carriage instead.

This time Billy had been forbidden to leave his post, and thus had been allowed to get a pint of egg-hot from The Birdcage, which happened to be the first pub they passed along the way.

John and Sherlock did not follow him inside, having decided that it might be best to leave that part of the investigation to the police: a random bit of gossip overheard by a chariot driver could hardly be presented to that crowd of bawdy felons without ruining their previous assertion of being surgeons in search of bodies to dissect; after all, two such surgeons would not waste their time listening to fanciful stories.

 

Curtain Road was a squalid and dirty street flanked by sooty, low rise buildings that mostly consisted of furniture workshops. The unseemly quicksand that covered the pavement was nothing but a paste made of sawdust and sewage.

Ensconced between the factories and at the junction with New Inn Yard stood the incongruous polygonal construction with a thatched roof that was known as The Shakespeare theatre.

John stared at it as if transfixed, while his friend looked on, a fond smile on his lips.

“It’s not the one you’re thinking of; that would have been the Curtain, which was taken down two centuries ago.”

“Oh, of course, yes,” the doctor replied, shaken out of his reverie.

“I did mention you had a poet’s imagination,” the detective remarked.

“Seems like a long time since you said that,” the blond man chuckled. “Life with you is crowded with incidents.”

“I trust you have your pistol on you,” Sherlock said, making sure the collar of his cloak was upturned.

“Would you like to have it on you instead?”

The detective shook his head.

“I’d rather leave my life in your hands than risk yours in mine,” he replied, and to John’s ears these words were proof of a devotion even greater than love.

 

A large playbill was affixed to the door of the theatre, announcing the title of their next production, which was due to open soon.

“The Vampyre,” read Sherlock, crinkling his nose in distaste. “What an absurd conceit; that a person should find eternal life by means of ingesting the blood of other men. It’s obviously unreasonable, since that would be another aging creature that would thus carry the same original sin of all humanity: the necessity to become old and quit one's life.”

“Aside from this, why would anyone want to live forever? You’d still be here, but your family and friends would be dead. A desert is no place for a rose to thrive,” the doctor said.

The detective cast him an eloquent look that indicated his belief that John was indeed a poet disguised as a surgeon; together, they banged at the locked door, but in vain.

“Let’s try the back,” Sherlock suggested, but it wasn’t to be an easy thing; there seemed to be no alleyways separating the theatre and the buildings on either side of it; it was as if they were propping each other up, or as if they were just one solidified bloc comprised of pieces of varying shapes.

After a while, the detective emitted a whistle and a frustrated exclamation:

“I have been a fool,” he said, “Look at the panel at the base of this wall.”

John bent down to peer closely at that portion of masonry and saw what his friend meant: what seemed just a collection of blackened bricks was in fact a wooden trap-door, painted over to resemble the rest of the façade.

The spring mechanism opened easily once the right amount of pressure had been applied and they were now faced with the dubious task of walking down a flight of stairs into the dark - and probably rat-infested bowels - of a decrepit building without the benefit of a lamp.

“I should have taken the flintlock tinder pistol instead,” John remarked, with annoyance.

“I may not be an ex-soldier, but I do have some experience in this work of mine,” the detective replied, producing a candle and tinderbox from his capacious pockets.

Thankfully, that stretch of street was deserted, as the working day was over and the factories were all shut.

From faraway came the faint sound of shouting and singing, probably issuing from a public house in the neighbourhood.

“Careful now,” the doctor said, as his friend, lit candle in hand, started his descent into The Shakespeare’s underbelly.

 

“No, that won’t do at all! I told you as much already: Aubrey is a young nobleman, an innocent soul, not a rake! Go easy on the rouge and the blue chalk or you’ll end up looking like Grimaldi instead!”

“We have to give folks something to gawp at or they’ll regret spending five shillings for a ticket.”

The altercation was taking place somewhere above them; the actors’ steps echoed loudly in the musty, humid lair in which they were huddled, barely able to stand up straight. Sherlock had removed his hat and given it to John.

“There must be a way to get upstairs,” the doctor whispered, as he wilfully ignored the scuttling sound that indicated the presence of vermin.

“Feel this?” the detective asked, “It’s a faint breeze and there are no windows. If we follow it to its point of origin, we should find the passage the leads to the upstairs stage area. They must use this subterranean space to store some of their props.”

There were all manners of chairs, boxes and chests stacked inside the chambers, they discovered as they looked for the way out.

“It’s like a deuced maze,” John exclaimed, stepping over a slimy object whose nature he refused to contemplate. 

“Yes, and anyone who knew the place could easily use it to store bodies or hide the victim of an abduction,” Sherlock said, carefully moving the candle so as to illuminate as much of that labyrinth as he possibly could.

“Do you think Emma Clairmont has been taken here?”

“I’m pretty sure of it,” the detective replied. “Can’t you smell jasmine?”

In truth, John had sniffed the whiff of a flowery fragrance, but had imagined it to come from his friend’s hair; he didn’t say it though, not wanting to add the charge of sentimentality to that of lyricism.

“I saw a flagon of Floris’s Night Jasmine inside her bedside cabinet. Normally, it would have evaporated, but since there are no windows and the stench is not overpowering,” the young man explained.

At last, they reached a heavy mahogany door, but when they tried to open it, they realised it was either locked or bolted on the other side.

“I could shoot at the lock, but that would hardly pass unnoticed.”

“A theatrical entrance,” the detective smirked, “Highly appropriate, methinks, and less bothersome than kicking the blasted thing down.”

“Alright, then,” John agreed. “Move away, my dear, I wouldn’t want to singe that gorgeous cape of yours.” This said, he returned his hat to Sherlock, and, pointing the weapon at the brass lock, he fired one shot.

 

“What in the name of the Bard is going on now?”

As they emerged onto the back of the stage, they were thus greeted by a man in a raven, curly wig. He was wearing a floor length chemise and his face was chalk-white with powder, with blue veins drawn in a faint tracery over cheeks and neck. His lips were crimson and the contour of his eyes had been blackened with burnt cork. Behind him was a fair-haired young boy in a doublet and breeches.

“You are the theatre manager, I assume,” the detective said, unperturbed.

“Benjamin Conquest, but don’t think for a minute that this caper will get you a part in my production,” the man scolded, but soon relented, as he examined the young man, admiring his stature and proportions.

“We are not actors,” said John, eager to nip Conquest’s assumptions in the bud.

“The theatre is closed; if you are here to see the play, it’s much too soon, I’m afraid. We are not quite finished rehearsing,” the actor-manager said, in a more benevolent manner.

“I would like to ask you and Mr?” Sherlock said, looking at the youth that was still cowering behind Conquest.

“Stirling, Sir,” the boy replied, in a vibrating tenor voice, “Mr Samuel Stirling.”

“Very well,” the detective continued. “I would like to ask you and Mr Stirling some questions about the 8th January. By the by, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I work in collaboration with the Metropolitan Police. This is Doctor John Watson. Shall we sit down?”

The manager showed them onto the stage on which a grand, baroque-style settee stood on a large pedestal; they sat down on it, and to an outside viewer they would have seemed a very odd assembly of disparate characters.

“Are any of your actors using Night Jasmine?” Sherlock asked, adding soon after: “It’s a fragrance by Floris.”

Conquest laughed so hard his wig moved sideways.

“This is not the Drury Lane, dear fellow,” he sniggered, straightening his hair-piece. “We don’t have money to squander on perfume and flowers, do we Sam?”

He elbowed the young man in the ribs, eliciting from him a stream of shivery giggles.

“When was the last time you went downstairs?”

“The rabbit warren?” asked Conquest with a shudder. “I never set foot in there. This is my first production here, and to be frank, I didn’t expect such a great opportunity. No need to go stirring the pot, if you catch my drift, Sir.”

“And what drift would that be?” asked John, who had sat between Sherlock and the theatre manager, just in case.

“Our patron, a most magnanimous gentleman, has warned us that the underground is a dangerous place, what with the rats and the risk of cholera; he indicated we better stay away.”

“May I enquire about his name?” the detective said.

“That’s the funniest thing,” Stirling said, still giggling, “His name is Lord Ruthven, which is also the name of the main character of the play.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be a vampire?” asked John.

“Yes, an aristocrat and a blood-sucking fiend,” the boy replied, his laughter dying away, like the flame of Sherlock’s forgotten candle.


	11. Smarra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys enquire about the identity of Lord Ruthven.  
> Things happen in the night, of a non-PG rated nature, so mind the tags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: According to Charles Nodier, Smarra is a pathology occurring in sleep: thus phenomena such as vampirism. lycanthropy and necrophagy, but also somnambulism and nightmare, are all caused by it.

_“In another world,' he said, lowering his voice; I remember... was it not in another world, in a life which was not in thrall to sleep and its phantoms?...”_

“ _Scarcely has night arrived to undeceive, unfurling her wings of crepe (wings drained even of the glimmer just now dying in the tree-tops); scarcely has the last glint still dancing on the burnished metal heights of the tall towers ceased to fade, like a still glowing coal in a spent brazier, which whitens gradually beneath the ashes, and soon is indistinguishable from the abandoned hearth, than a fearful murmur rises amongst them, their teeth chatter with despair and rage, they hasten and scatter in their dread, finding witches everywhere, and ghosts. It is night... and Hell will gape once more_.”

_Excerpts from Smarra by Charles Nodier_

 

* * *

 

 

“Thomas Baxter’s handiwork, I believe,” said Sherlock, caressing the exquisite chalice with nimble fingers. It depicted Shakespeare’s likeness, and scenes from The Tempest and Cymbeline in the ornamental style typical of the Worcester factory: the blue and gilt enamels were resplendent and pure and the design intricate and flawless. The precious object stood inside a glass niche at the entrance of the theatre, surely in celebration of the playwright who’d lent his name to it.

Conquest nodded, but it was clear from his countenance that he did not have the faintest idea yet did not want to admit it.

John, who had no such qualms, enquired: “Is he a famous painter?”

“He’s a master of his craft and this piece will one day be of incalculable value; even now,” he said, turning to stare at the actor-manager, “I would be exceedingly careful with it.”

“No need to caution me, dear fellow, I never set foot in here.”

“For a manager, you don’t seem to know much about your own place of work,” commented the doctor.

The man, who’d removed his ostentatious wig, uncovering a mane of unkempt greying hair, took the criticism in his stride.

“I do as I am told, my friend; I do as I am told,” he replied, “I was at loose ends and all of a sudden, I was offered a play - a play! -  at a London theatre; why would I go and upset the apple-cart?”

“And who suggested your name to your benefactor?” asked the detective.

“I’m not sure,” Conquest replied, scratching his painted forehead and leaving a faint trail, like a snow-streak. “You know how these things happen in the trade: you hear rumours, see a friend and then another; you talk to all manner of people down the pub and before you know it, you find yourself in East London rehearsing with a troupe of actors; isn’t life marvellous?”

Sherlock grimaced and John smiled, but they were both struck by the vagueness of the narrative.

“When did Lord Ruthven appear on the scene?”

“Oh, no, he never did any such thing! He wouldn’t, would he? He’s part of the nobility, isn’t he?”

“I have never heard of him before today,” said Sherlock. “I don’t make it a habit of consorting with the aristocracy, but I’m conversant with their names and titles, especially when they are interested in the arts.”

“Could it be a sort of stage name?” said John.

“I suppose,” replied Conquest, slightly baffled. “I never thought of this eventuality, to be frank. I received all the instructions by letter and when I came here, everything was ready, as if a magician had granted my every wish. The pay is not lavish, as I mentioned, not enough to waste our guineas on needless luxuries, but more than sufficient for the running of a deuced good show!”

“And the letter was signed by Lord Ruthven? May I have a look at it?” asked the detective.

“I’m afraid you can’t; one of the assignments consisted in burning it after I’d committed the content to memory. The money was paid into a deposit at Baring Brothers.”

“Why would he trust you to not simply pilfer the entire sum?” John remarked.

Again, Conquest was not unduly offended.

“That would be the end of my career, dear fellow. Money will only last you a-while, while a trade will see you through the lean times.”

“Aye, that is true,” the doctor concurred.

“In conclusion, you have never set eyes on this gentleman nor have you discoursed with him by other means other than the written word,” Sherlock stated, “Anyone could have penned that missive. I will enquire at the bank, but I suspect it will only lead me down a blind alley.”

“What are your interests in this?” said Conquest.

“I thought you’d never ask,” replied the young man. “We can’t reveal the extent of our involvement, but let’s just say we think this place may be more than just a theatre. The rabbit warren, as you called it, is the ideal locus for hiding all kind of sins.”

“A criminal endeavour?” the man said, his face a ludicrous painted mask of astonishment. “That would be unfortunate; this production is going to be a success, I can feel it in my old bones!”

“Is there anything you care about aside from the play?” asked John.

Conquest gave him the brightest smile he’d ever seen; a brimful of unadulterated joy.

“The play’s the thing,” he quoted, “You walked right into that one, didn’t you Doctor?”

The blond man returned the smile.

“Yes, I truly did.”

“You can’t ask an old hand like me to change, all of a sudden,” the manager explained. “If I didn’t think about my work day and night, nothing would get done. You’ve seen that boy Sam; he’s your typical actor: always thinks he knows better than his elders and betters, always disobeying orders. If I permitted him to do as he likes, my macabre melodrama would turn into a bawdy comedy.”

“You can continue undisturbed, as long as you allow us to fully inspect the underground maze; if you don’t, we will have to inform the Metropolitan Police,” said Sherlock, curtly.

“I’d rather deal with you two gentleman than with a meddlesome Superintendent,” Conquest sighed, raking a hand through his already tangled hair.

“Good,” said the detective. “We’ll have that door repaired, as we don’t want to cause you unnecessary trouble. If you are finished for the night, we’d like to borrow two lamps and go back downstairs.”

“Yes, well, I had realised how late it was, what with that boy forgetting his lines and chuckling like a fool,” replied Conquest. “He’s perfect for the part, looks just like an innocent prince, but, alas, without the brains to match. That is frequently the case: the prettiest ones are often the most lacking up here,” he concluded, touching the side of his temple.

“It’s not always the case, though,” countered John, casting a sidelong glance at his companion, who was perusing the various old playbills affixed to the walls.

“What sort of plays do you stage?” the detective enquired.

“Comedy, tragedy, historical, musical; there is little I haven’t tried,” the man replied.

“What I can evince from these notices is that The Shakespeare has never staged anything like The Vampyre; is that true?”

“It may be,” Conquest replied, “They may have looked for a change of direction, so to speak, to breathe new life into the old carcass. Wouldn’t be the first instance, won’t be the last.”

“We won’t keep you, Sir; if you can lend us two lamps, we shall leave you in peace,” John said, feeling sorry for the poor wretch who would have to find his way home on that frosty night.

“You and Stirling lodge here, I gather,” said Sherlock, once again reading his companion’s mind.

“Why bother travelling back and forth when we have a perfectly comfortable set of rooms upstairs? The boy and I are the principal actors; the others are only bit parts and don’t need as much rehearsing time. I have hired local people and they come during the day. Here, if you follow me, I’ll see that you have what you require.”

“Did you know Stirling beforehand?” asked John, as they followed Conquest to his dressing room, stepping over bundles of rope, pulleys and other stage implements.

“Not _know_ him exactly, but I had seen him play Benvolio at the Adelphi. He was the understudy and wasn’t quite up to scratch, but his face! Have you seen his face?” he asked, clearly more interested in that than in the identity of the mysterious Lord Ruthven.

Seeing that neither man was replying, he went on: “He looks like an angel fallen from the sky, straight out of a painting. A predestined victim, if ever I met one.”

“Victim?” repeated Sherlock, as he prepared the lamps he and John were going to carry with them.

“In the play,” Conquest explained, “the story designates him as the victim.”

“My memory could be at fault,” said the detective, evidently knowing that could never be the case, “But I seem to recall Aubrey’s sister was the vampyre’s prey.”

“Yes, well, she may be the one that quenches his thirst, but it is Aubrey that he wants to torment.”

Sherlock stared at the man as if he was seeing him for the first time as a sentient creature.

Conquest laughed and said, “I may not be a clever man in your mould, Mr Holmes, but I know what the public wants.” Then, looking at the doctor, he continued:

“Ever since the new laws have been passed, we can finally tell other stories, more honest-like, if you get my drift.”

John was not yet accustomed to disclosing his sexual proclivities to a stranger, so he limited his response to a curt nod and a timid smile.

There was just one final question he wanted to ask:

“Why play the vampyre yourself; is it lack of funds or vanity?”

“I am, Sir, first and foremost an actor,” the man replied, his face a study of injured pride, “You will find out soon enough that even when another occupation fills your days and your nights, your real vocation will have you back in its thrall, like a siren’s call.”

And with this, neither John nor Sherlock could venture to disagree.

 

The dungeon, as the detective had renamed it, did not yield much, nor had he imagined it would. If the felons they were seeking were as cunning and evil as he believed them to be, they would hardly leave a trail of clues for them to decrypt.

The scent of jasmine that he had discerned before was no longer there, dissolved in the air and replaced by the acrid smell of gunpowder which, to tell the truth, Sherlock found infinitely more delectable.

“Nothing,” John remarked, in a disappointed tone, “they did not leave a trace; if your sharp senses hadn’t detected the Night Jasmine, we would not have found a single proof they had ever been here.”

“I gather that you believe Conquest’s story.”

“Yes,” the doctor replied, moving a stack of chairs and cursing, as a colony of mice scurried away, brushing against his boots. “Why, do you suspect him of lying?”

“Oh no, I’m convinced he’s telling the truth, but he may have been steered into a certain direction without being quite aware of it. He’s utterly possessed by the call of his work; he said so himself.”

“Yes, well, it’s not uncommon, with these obsessive types,” replied John, patting his friend’s arm.

“No reason for lingering, my dear,” Sherlock said, considering his companion’s tired countenance. “We have done all we could.” But as he said that, a gleam caught his eye: trapped between two dislodged bricks was an object that had been hidden there; its colour was the same as its surroundings, but its substance was of an altogether different material.

“A book,” he exclaimed, and as he prised it from its prison, the light of the lamps fell on the cover: it was patent black, with the inscription in gold. “Smarra by Charles Nodier,” he read.

“Never heard of it,” John remarked.

The detective leafed through the slim volume and “It’s in French,” he said, reading a few lines here and there.

“I shall take it with me,” he then declared, “It is plain as day that they wanted us to have it or they wouldn’t have left if here.”

“Is it another tale of vampyres?”

 “Yes, so it seems. I will make it my night’s reading and by tomorrow, I may understand this fiend’s mind a little better.”

“You will have to give a full account of it, as my French is not quite up to scratch, much like Stirling and his Benvolio.”

“An angel fallen from the sky,” Sherlock quoted, sneering a little.

“Conquest may be great at his job, but he has no concept of what a real fallen angel looks like,” the blond man replied, caressing his friend’s flushed cheek.

 

John had been fast asleep for an hour at least when he was awaken by a creaking sound; before going to war, he’d been used to falling into deep slumber and thence be dead to the world, but that, alas, was no longer the case.

His eyes still shut and his pulse throbbing in his throat, he listened intently and there it was again: the handle of his door being turned; softly, softly.

Not one to believe in ghosts, he concluded there was only one possible solution to this puzzle.

“Sherlock?” he called out, and true to his surmises, the door opened and shut and, with a swishing sound of fabric, the detective appeared in front of him; the room was in near complete darkness, only the moribund fire providing a few glimmers here and there, and in that twilight, the young man, in his flimsy silk chemise, was akin to the apparition of a fairy or a god in a foamy cloud.

“John,” he murmured, “I had a terrible dream and I want to…”

“Wake up from it?” suggested the doctor, in a whisper.

“No,” replied the detective, his voice trembling, “I very much yearn to lose myself in it.”

Another man may have asked all manner of questions, but, oddly, John did not need to; in a flash, he saw what must have happened: Sherlock reading a tale of vampyres who preyed on sleeping creatures; the way these demons possessed their victims; the twisted iniquity of their deeds: he must have been captured by its evil charms so intensely to allow them to insinuate his dreams and drench them in sensuality.

Without saying a word, he approached the young man and, guided more by instinct than by sight, reached out and placed his hand on the other’s chest. Through the soft, gauzy fabric, the detective’s skin was warm and his pulse swift; suddenly, before Sherlock could guess his next move, he rubbed a nipple with the pad of thumb.

The young man let out a soft whimper, which was all the encouragement he needed to follow that rough caress with more intense ministrations: he pinched and tweaked the pebbled nub, until he felt Sherlock tremble.

“Yes?” he asked, and felt his lover nod wildly.

At that, he replaced his fingers with his mouth, suckling through the sodden fabric and, by then, his other hand had moved down, to cup the detective’s straining arousal.    

When he bit down on the tortured bud and squeezed the engorged glans, Sherlock’s legs buckled.

“Here, my darling, here,” he said, and after removing the silky garment, he helped his lover back onto the bed, until he was sitting on the mattress, his bare feet on the rug.

“Are you cold?” he murmured, kissing the young man’s mouth; his lips felt fever-hot and John guessed his friend must have been biting them all through their encounter.

Sherlock shook his head and arched his back, seeking solace from the torment in his blood.

“My sweet darling,” John moaned, and licked deep inside the detective’s mouth, sinking both hands into the luscious curls, feeling the slender body become lax and pliable under his grasp. It was a blissful state of things, but both their needs had to be quelled, and there was only one way he could sate his own thirst.

Falling down to his knees between Sherlock’s splayed legs, he thumbed at the tender creases that join thigh and groin, and much like one of those imaginary creatures in the book, he descended on his lover’s member and swallowed it down, all the while sucking on it with intent. When he felt John’s mouth on him, the detective shouted and the tremor that shook him never abated, not until he felt a finger breach his entrance and a vicious pressure on his glans: he sobbed like a baby and shot endless jets of hot release inside another creature, for the first time in his life.

After that, John became ever more frantic: pushing Sherlock down on his back and upwards to the middle of the bed, he climbed over him and covered him with his naked body, frotting against his stomach and hips, stroking his face and arms, seeking his own deliverance.

“Your beautiful neck,” the detective heard John say and, immediately, knew what he wanted.

He pulled the doctor’s face to his throat and tilted his head up, like an offering.

“Take it,” he begged, and heard a growl come from deep in his lover’s chest; in the next instant, he was being devoured and, impossibly, he felt his penis swell until it was fully erect, again.

“Oh my love,” gasped John, when he felt the hardened member; without hesitation, he took both their arousals in his fist and stroked them hard, even as he suckled the tender skin of the young man’s throat.

“I’m close,” he croaked and Sherlock nodded, yes, yes, yes, and then “Bite me, please, leave a mark on my throat,” he implored, and when the tide of their climax hit them, John smeared a wet kiss at the base of the detective’s neck and cried, “I love you”, his heart exploding inside his chest.

An eternity later - or perhaps only a handful of instants - they lay beneath the covers entwined, and Sherlock said, “I love you, too,” and was enveloped in a tight embrace.

“My dear,” John whispered, caressing whatever part of his lover he could reach.

“You didn’t,” the detective said, burrowing even closer.

“You were caught in your dream and could have fallen either side of it,” the older man explained. “I will never let you fall, my darling; I will always be here to catch you.”

“It was a very powerful desire,” Sherlock explained, as he felt sleep approaching, “But what you said; that was stronger still.”

“Tomorrow, you will tell me all about that French book.”

“Smarra,” murmured the detective, and closed his eyes, shutting out the incubus and surrendering to the sweetness of a dreamless slumber.


	12. Holding a Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doubts himself.  
> There will be sex from the get-go, so mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The quote at the start of the chapter is from a book of recent publication. I usually only quote from texts of the era in which the story is set, but this seemed so very apt.

_“In your own situation you will easily imagine the mad bordello of my dreams, which reflected everything but my actual situation, nightly holding a Genius to my chest.”_

_Excerpt from The Chemistry of Tears by Peter Carey_

 

* * *

 

Daylight was timidly peering through the folds of the damask curtains, when Sherlock opened his eyes.

He’d never spent a night in another man’s bed, enclosed in his arms; and it wasn’t only the novelty of the location, but the musk generated by the conjunction of their bodies that disoriented and excited him. John was resting on his side, quietly asleep, one hand firmly grasping his lover’s waist, strong fingers digging into the young man’s prickling skin; their legs were tangled, like they wanted to ensure the two lovers wouldn’t move apart and go their separate ways.

His flesh and his blood had a mind of their own; they knew what they wanted and clamoured for it like they had never done before; it was terrifying, that he couldn’t control them by sheer willpower; that his intellectual prowess counted as little as brain matter in a pickled jar.

And then there was his heart, the surfeit of emotions that stemmed from it and demanded a release; words that he’d never said or even thought; enterprises that would cast him in the role of prince or tormented victim, like Aubrey in The Vampyre.

Ultimately - he mused - that tale was one of awakening of the senses, and there was no escaping the yearning for possession, regardless of the role one was playing.

In the midst of his reflections, he was constantly aware of the press of John’s fingers, the warmth of the man’s breath and, finally, in the dizziness of proximity, he looked down to find his own member blood-red and aching.

Trying to not rouse his lover, he closed his fist round it and, tentatively, rubbed at the wet slit with his thumb; that was a marvellous misstep, as it forced a moan out of his lips loud enough to wake a sleeping ex-soldier.

John went from fast asleep to wide awake in the blink of an eye; his cerulean gaze took in the frozen, flushed countenance of his friend, caught in the act of self-pleasure and most probably ashamed of it.

Unwilling to break the spell, he took Sherlock’s hand and licked the juice off his thumb. “Heavenly,” he murmured, and re-placed it where it had been.

“May I watch you, please?” he asked, softly. And, careful to not frighten his lover, he caressed his curls, the peak of a cheekbone, the sweep of his jaw. The detective nodded and closed his eyes, while his fist worked languorously, from base to tip.

“Open you eyes, my dear,” John asked, in a ragged voice.

After a while, Sherlock complied; his eyelids fluttered like gossamer wings and his darkened pupils stared at the lewd spectacle.

He was dimly aware of John’s caresses, of his chaste kisses, until something happened: he had started to moan loudly, and call John’s name, and push closer to him, bowing his back, wriggling his hips.

“Oh, come here,” the doctor said, and took command of the situation, biting at Sherlock’s lips and conquering his mouth, leaving him gasping, only to devour him again and again. At the same time, he’d taken both their arousals in his hand, squeezing and stroking them roughly, demanding his lover to join in. 

Thus, their frantic coupling found them united in a tangle of tongues and lacing of fingers; their bodies desperate and yearning for even more of one another, until their passion peaked and washed all over them.

“Beautiful,” John whispered, as he wiped Sherlock’s abdomen and groin with a linen sheet.

“Unlikely,” replied the detective, eyes shut and a weak smile on his swollen lips.

“A certainty,” insisted the doctor, “Just as the fact that - for some unknown reason - I have been permitted this stroke of luck. Why me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” the young man replied, frowning. “It wasn’t unlike the alchemy you so derided; I find myself baffled just as you are, but I can no more deny the truth of it than I could vaunt a belief in any deity. It is what it is, my dear.”

“And what it is, is the most precious of miracles,” John stated, taking Sherlock in his arms and kissing his moistened brow.

“Tell me about the book,” he urged, as the young man settled in his embrace.

“A most disquieting tale about the demons of the night,” the detective said, unable to repress a shudder, “Smarra is the Dalmatian word for nightmare, and the sickness that envenoms both mind and blood when tormented by uneasy slumber.”

“What dreams may come,” quoted John, stroking his companion’s hair.

“Yes, quite; the demon causes all manner of mischief, including vampyrism and somnambulism.”

“Lady Vere mentioned that her sister suffered from it while they were in Lincolnshire.”

Sherlock sighed and turned his head to the side, presenting his cheek for a kiss that was immediately bestowed.

“Even I succumbed to the fascination of that narrative,” he said, “I cannot imagine that an innocent maiden would be left untouched by it.”

“I wonder what the connection is with the staging of the play. What do they use for blood?”

“A mixture of colouring agents; in Elizabethan times, they used animal blood, but that’s no longer the case. Sometimes though, they still use sheep’s intestines and other organs to frighten the public.”

“You don’t think…” John started, trailing kisses along his lover’s shoulders.

“I don’t know what to think. Every hypothesis seems as far-fetched as the existence of vampyres and ghosts. However, I am certain that the impression these villains are trying to force on us is nothing but smoke and mirrors. The danger is real and the culprit as mortal as the two of us.”

“As to that, I have serious doubts,” the doctor replied, grinning. “I’m most certainly human, but you my dear, you could well be a fallen angel.”

“Should I ask Conquest for a role in his production?”

“I bet he would love that,” replied John, “But you don’t belong on a stage.”

“And where do I belong?” quipped Sherlock

“In 221b Baker Street and in the alleys of London, solving mysteries and showing off your considerable genius.”

“I thought you were going to say charm.”

“Yes, that too,” John concurred, pinching the young man’s buttocks as if to prove his point.

 

They were drinking tea and reading the morning papers, when there was a rap at the door.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?” shouted Sherlock, putting his paper aside with an impatient gesture that made his partner smile.

“A Mr Brookes to see you,” replied the landlady, opening the door and letting the visitor in.

Joshua Brookes was undoubtedly the opposite of what one imagined an eminent former surgeon to be: his clothes were worn and creased, his nails chipped and crusted with dirt and his nose and eyes bore the unmistakeable signs of incipient alcoholism.

“Rowland told me you came to see me,” the man said, as he sipped the Assam tea he’d been offered. The hand holding it shook a little, and Sherlock correctly deduced that it was due to drink rather than fear.

“We are trying to find a missing person,” he explained, closely studying Brookes’ countenance as he spoke. “Her name is Emma Clairmont and she had the name of your museum written on a scrap of paper we found among her things.”

“I’m not in the habit of frequenting ladies, alas. I lead a rather monastic life, dedicated to the collection of the samples you have admired.”

“You quit the profession then,” asked John. “I’m a surgeon myself.”

“Not an anatomist, I gather,” observed the man. “You haven’t the complexion or the grim deportment.”

“No, you are quite right,” admitted John. “But you have not answered my question.”

Sherlock’s lips curved in his habitual oblique smile.

Brookes inspected his nails and grimaced.

“Too old to compete and too tired of dealing with grabbers and their ilk,” he said. “Unless you belong to the Medical Establishment, this trade will destroy your health and your sanity.”

“Do you allow ladies visitors in your Museum?” asked the detective.

“It’s not a matter of forbidding them, but they don’t usually delight in gruesome spectacles. Not proper ladies,” he added.

“And do you sell your samples?”

“Certainly not,” replied Brookes, a glint of steel in his glaucous pupils.

“What about gifting them?” urged the detective, “A Miss Christabel Light owns one of them. I have seen it and it’s most certainly one of your jars.”

“But I do not know any such lady and I tell you again that I do not give my specimens away,” the man insisted, evidently offended.

“Would you notice if a jar went missing?” enquired John.

Brookes flushed and mumbled under his breath,

“Not the smaller ones,” he had to concede, “There’s too many of them; some are duplicates or even triplicates.”

“Do you trust your nephew?”

“Trust Rowland?” scoffed Brookes, “There’s nowt to steal at the Museum or else I wouldn’t let him keep an eye on it. Not that he’s wicked; no, that I don’t believe he is.”

“Yet you came to see us first thing in the morning,” said Sherlock, “Has anything unusual happened; a night disturbance, perchance?”

The man scratched his head and fell silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his manner was uncertain.

“I don’t wish to appear like the mad physician in that lurid novel,” he started.

“Doctor Frankenstein?” said John, with a chuckle, “That’s just a story, Sir; you can’t recreate life in the way suggested by the writer; why should we think you could?”

“That’s not what I meant, Doctor Watson,” Brookes replied, “What I was trying to explain is that of late I have entered the dissecting room and had the feeling it had been used. Oh, the table had been scrubbed clean and the implements correctly replaced, but when you have spent most of your life observing details, it is almost impossible to be thus hoodwinked.”

“You don’t live there, I assume,” said Sherlock.

“I lodge with my brother’s family. I used to have rooms upstairs, but I have had to make space for my larger specimens.”

“Have you tried spending the night there to find out whether your suspicions were right?”

The man shook his head and the tremor in his hands intensified; he needed a drink, the doctor concluded.

“I see,” the detective said, “You are too frightened to do it. Do the words Life in Death mean anything to you?”

“Nothing but an impossible fancy, like Doctor Watson said,” replied Brookes, in as firm a tone as he could muster.

“Very well,” Sherlock remarked, “We shall take a copy of your keys and do precisely that; keep a vigil at your Museum and see whether something inappropriate is taking place. Obviously, we expect you to keep silent, especially with your family.”

“I have a spare bunch on me,” Brookes replied, thus revealing the real reason of his visit. “Just in case, you see?”

“Yes, Sir; I do see,” replied the young man, as he pocketed the keys.

 

Aside from writing a note to Lestrade detailing Seagrave's allegations regarding the bundle in the well, John was left without an occupation while the detective was locked in his study, immersed in his research.

He decided to update his journal: a retelling of the events that had occurred from his point of view, which - he soon realised - tended to make a hero of Sherlock, as his evident admiration and affection shone through every word.

No matter, he thought; after all, Sherlock really possessed a singular mind, one that was extremely inclined to scientific investigation yet as sensitive as the strings of a violin.

Five pages had been filled in his painstaking hand, when the man in question swept into the drawing room with a step worthy of a general eager to plant a flag on conquered land.

“Lord Ruthven is not in Debrett’s; that settles the question about his existence: he may be a nobleman, but he’s acting in disguise; therefore his motives are to be questioned, which we’d already suspected anyway.”

“Should we go to Baring Brothers to find out the identity of this mysterious benefactor?”

“They won’t tell us anything, I’m afraid,” the detective replied; disappointment made him look even younger than his green years.

“Perhaps we should ask Lestrade,” John suggested.

“Not without a reason and I’d rather not disclose the details of Miss Clairmont’s disappearance yet,” said Sherlock. “No, I fear I will have to involve a bothersome intruder.”

“Your brother?”

The young man sighed.

“Yes, unfortunately,” he admitted. “There is no urgency, but it will have to be done.”

“There’s another thing I would like to talk to you about.”

John noticed that his friend’s self-assurance had waned and his crystalline gaze had dulled.

“What is it?” he asked, anxious to dispel the clouds from his beloved's countenance.

“Have you ever heard of Dom Augustin Calmet?”

“Not that I can recall,” he replied, guiding Sherlock toward the settee and pouring him a cup of strong tea. The young man rallied and, glad to unburden his heart, he continued:

“He was a Benedictine Abbot and a biblical scholar. He wrote a treatise entitled The Phantom World, which cites more than five hundred ‘documented’ cases of vampyrism in Hungary, Bohemia and Silesia. The words vampyre or oupire mean bloodsucker in the Slavonic tongue.”

John had not smoked his pipe in a while, but he most assuredly needed a stimulant in that moment; he made do with a sip of Assam and tried to find adequate words in response, but Sherlock was already pressing on.

“Then there’s Arnold Paul and his story: he returned home from the Turkish wars, died and rose from the grave to feed on family and friends. His tale was published as factual in the London Journal. I have a copy of the 1732 edition; I will show it to you and you can see for yourself.”

“You can’t seriously believe such unmitigated balderdash?”

The detective shivered despite the roaring fire and the scolding tea.

“I wouldn’t, normally; Calmet was a much respected man within his field of study and not one to be influenced by idle speculation.”

“He was also a religious man and thus more inclined to believe in superstitions.”

“Last night, something happened to me, while I read that book.”

“What, my dear?”

The detective stared at the flames behind the grate, his brows furrowed and his curls damp with perspiration.

“I’m not sure I can explain it,” he whispered, “My mind was cold and detached when I started, but as the narrative progressed, a sort of spell invaded it; the invocations of Polemon as he sees the demon feasting on blood and then,” he shivered, “Lucius watching as Smarra devours Polemon’s heart and then forces the un-dead victim to join him in devouring the flesh of exhumed corpses. I know it sounds melodramatic and grotesque, but there was a malignant calm and an insinuating sweetness in the writing that reduced those horrific deeds to an almost normal occurrence; and because of what I had felt with you, it seemed to me that everything I had always believed in - rationality, logic, the omnipotence of science – were only shadows destined to dissolve into the blinding lights of that sensual consummation.”

“You thought you’d been wrong,” said John, caressing his friend’s trembling fingers.

“I felt that I couldn’t be sure anymore, that all certainties had been taken from me and I had been left naked, cowering and alone.”

“You are not alone and you are not wrong,” the older man stated, “There must be a logical explanation for all those reported cases of vampyrism; after all, the phenomenon is akin to a witch-hunt: the frenzy and descent into madness bear a very strong resemblance to it.”

Sherlock stood and strode towards the drinks cabinet whence he plucked a flagon of laudanum; he held it against his chest for a long while then, returning to the settee, he handed it to his companion.

“This poison used to caused me hallucinations once,” he whispered, “I want you to have it. As I said already, I’d rather leave my life in your hands than risk it in mine. This case may push me very close to the edge of the abyss and I trust you will keep me from it.”

John took the bottle and momentarily put it in the pocket of his dressing gown, with every intention of pouring the liquid down the privy as soon as he could. Naturally, he thought, Sherlock could have done this himself, but consigning his safety to his lover was his way of admitting defeat.

“This is not a defeat,” he said, staring in Sherlock’s eyes with a decided gaze. “To win a battle and eventually a war, you need to know the enemy, for sure, but most of all, you have to face the truth about yourself. When we lost, out there in the Gold Coast, it was because we neglected the strength of our opponent and, more crucially, we refused to consider our own weaknesses. You are not frail, Sherlock; you have only realised how strong and dangerous the enemy is.”

The detective nodded and his body relinquished some of the rigidity it had acquired.

“Come, let’s have some luncheon, before we both incur the ire of Mrs Hudson’s,” said John, smiling at his friend’s haughty reaction.

There was a knock at the door which they thought may signify their landlady’s powers of divination, but was in fact proof of Mycroft’s knack for appearing at the least appropriate moments.

“Am I interrupting something?” the elder Holmes enquired, arching his eyebrows.

“Aren’t you always?” quipped his brother.

“I have heard you went to visit the Seagrave fellow,” the man replied, undeterred. “His brother makes violin strings; still abstaining from your instrument brother mine?” he asked, with a slight smirk.

“Some don’t meddle in other people’s business; perhaps you should take a leaf out of their book,” said Sherlock, acidly. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mycroft said, with an air of being very sure indeed. “I was wondering whether you needed a helping hand with your investigation.”

“Why would you think that?” his sibling said.

John feared an endless game of thrust-and-parry and decided to call an end to it.

“Baring Brothers,” he said and, even though his friend glared at him, he did not contradict him.

“An actor-manager named Benjamin Conquest told us he received a deposit of money from a Lord Ruthven at Baring Brothers.”

“I have never heard his name,” Mycroft said.

“It’s not in Debrett’s,” explained John, earning himself another dark look.

“Very well, I shall do what I can,” declared the elder Holmes, smiling at John with all the warmth of a hyena.

When the door clicked shut, the doctor turned towards his friend and asked:

“How’s your appetite?”

Sherlock sniffed and emitted a sound to convey his utmost disdain.

“Very well,” murmured John, “I shall pretend to ignore you while you’re filching food from my plate.”


	13. The Silver Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are momentarily derailed from their purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The river Fleet gives its name to Fleet Street which runs from Ludgate Circus to Temple Bar at The Strand. During the 1970s, a planned London Underground tube was to lie under the line of Fleet Street and was originally named 'Fleet Line'. However this part of the route was not constructed when Sir Horace Cutler won a Conservative majority on the GLC and the line was terminated at Charing Cross and renamed as the Jubilee line to commemorate the Queen's Silver Jubilee of 1977.  
> Note 2: Magazines featuring flagellation (such as Glee and Pleasure, Bon Ton Magazine and The Annals of Gallantry) were very popular at the end of the 18th century. Future Poet Laureate Robert Southey created his own satirical school version called The Flagellant, which got him expelled from Westminster school

_“To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams_

_Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames_

_The king of dykes! than whom no sluice of mud_

_With deeper sable blots the silver flood.”_

_The Dunciad (excerpt) by Alexander Pope_

_“Strange, that I felt so gay,_  
_Strange, that I tried to-day_  
_To beguile her melancholy;_  
_The Sultan, as we name him,_  
_She did not wish to blame him”_

_Maud (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

               

* * *

                               

They were about to step inside the cab when Billy halted Sherlock in his tracks and explained something in a flurry of nervous gestures.

“We are going to the Covent Garden Police Station,” the detective told him, “And no, we are not _precisely_ in a hurry, but I’m not sure I’m prepared to meet the leader of the Forty Thieves.”

More gesturing followed to which Sherlock replied with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“You shouldn’t go poking your nose in each and every one of my affairs,” he chided, adding “Yes, I do appreciate your wish to help us and I’m grateful, but you must understand that I value discretion above all else.”

Billy’s countenance crumpled and his eyes shone with tears, causing John a pang of sadness.

“Don’t be too harsh on the boy,” he said, “He’s close to crying.”

His friend snorted and shook his head.

“Despite his infirmity, Billy could easily get a place in Conquest’s troupe; he’s a real actor, aren’t you Wiggins?” he said, and the boy smiled.

“Cheeky urchin,” John said, chuckling. “What’s he saying?”

“He wants us to go see a friend of his, at Saffron Hill,” the detective replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“By the Fleet Ditch? Not the most appealing of places, especially after luncheon,” remarked the doctor.

“That is exactly why I make a habit of not indulging in banquets and excessive libations,” declared the young man, with an air of affected wisdom, “It slows the workings of the mind and restricts the capabilities of the body.”

John bit his tongue before it could remind his companion that he’d just stealthily devoured a plateful of sausages while pretending to be reading The Times.

“I’m sure you are right, my dear,” he replied, instead. “But I shall endeavour to follow you despite my evident debility.”

Sherlock heaved a sonorous sigh and waved his hand in a royal manner.

“Let’s venture into the malodorous unknown!” he declaimed, and upturned his cape’s collar as if to hide behind it.

“Did he tell you anything more?”

“Just that Silver Robbie possesses information which may be extremely important for our case.”

“Silver Robbie,” John repeated, laughing, “Sounds like the name of a pirate; oh, is that why you’ve agreed to meet him; in the vain hope he’d be a member of a gang of seafaring outlaws?”

Naturally, the detective did not deign to answer him, but there was a telling glimmer in his eyes and his lips were struggling to contain a smile.

They drove through rank alleyways strewn with discarded junk and thick with mud; children covered in lice played with rats like they were pets and beggars in an alcoholic stupor lay on the filthy pavement; at some point they passed a group of men harmed with long poles and seemingly trying to fish all the scant treasures out of the flatulent river.

“Scavengers,” murmured Sherlock, suddenly hit by the unfairness of life. He’d never been involved in politics, not even at school, where he’d rebelled against fagging simply on the basis of his own perceived superiority as an individual. Cambridge was less interested in its pupils’ lineage than Oxford was, but Sherlock Holmes was not the revolutionary type in the Robert Southey’s mould: he did not try to change the existing order, he simply ignored it.

He did, however, feel the occasional twinge of distress when he contemplated the misery and loneliness of the destitute, especially in the case of children and young boys.

John looked at him and understood; he did not say a word, but squeezed his hand and did not let go until they reached Saffron Hill.

They left the cab outside a well-lit tavern and walked slowly along Field Lane, with its squalid shops selling second hand merchandise and fried fish.

“Keep your hands inside your pockets and hold on to your valuables,” Sherlock warned, but it wasn’t necessary since, after the meeting with Tom Trader, John was well prepared for the eventuality of petty thieves.

Because Billy was with them, no one dared approach them: the boy’s tattoo served as a reminder that he was one of them, even though he was walking with two wealthy outsiders.

They crossed a rickety bridge and got to the Old Red Lion pub, a derelict building fronted by blackened wooden pillars and crumbly, sooty masonry; the boy motioned them to follow him inside, but rather than entering from the main door, they went in from a side passage and down a damp, narrow flight of stairs which led onto another warren not dissimilar to the one underneath the Shakespeare Theatre. The main difference was the constant splash of water and its rank odours, but there were also traces of inhabitation in the passages and the hidden chambers: piles of garments, the odd sturdy boot, an unlit gas-lamp; underneath the leaky vaults of that subterranean inferno, an army of forgotten humanity was trying to eke out a living.

One distinctive feature was the lack of doors, which made privacy impossible; the visitors averted their eyes, mostly out of respect – in John’s case – and of dissimulation – in Sherlock’s. The detective had acquired the useful skill of looking without being perceived, and he constantly delighted in exercising it.

At last, they came upon a painted screen, a piece of lovely chinoiserie that was under attack from the ravages of mould; Billy rapped his knuckles against it: three times quickly and two slowly.

“Come in!” a voice commanded.

Wiggins folded the screen and let the two men through; he then returned it to its rightful position and stayed on the other side of it.

Silver Robbie was most certainly not a pirate: a short lean boy of between twelve and fifteen years of age, he had a pear-shaped head covered by the most astonishing mane of hair John had ever seen: shiny blonde, but so light in shade as to appear white, worn in tight ringlets that could have been sculpted, like those on a Renaissance statue. By contrast, his eyes were a dull grey, like pebbles found along the banks of the Fleet.

Dressed in a spencer jacket and breeches, he wore a pair of dainty crushed-velvet slippers that had incredibly survived unscathed in that insalubrious environment.

The solution to that riddle was the thick pile of rugs that covered the musty floor and transformed the vaulted chamber into an exotic cave. That impression was reinforced by the presence of cabinets and chairs in the Egyptian style and by the brass candelabra and smoking frankincense.

“Please gentlemen, sit down,” he said, in a badly-concealed Cockney accent.

John smiled as he observed his friend take possession of a throne-like chair with unfailing elegance, while he appropriated a modest wooden stool.

“Why are we here?” Sherlock asked, but he was immediately interrupted by the boy offering him the Meerschaum pipe that he’d just lit.

“Quality tobacco, nothing more,” he said, grinning. His teeth were the same shade as his hair, John noticed. He also realised he’d never seen his friend smoke and had to admit to being somewhat affected by the sight. Robbie arched his flaxen eyebrows and the point of his long nose twitched, as if he’d scented the doctor’s reactions and not merely seen them.

“Last night Wiggins came here to visit the old gang, as he does sometimes,” the boy recounted, taking the pipe from Sherlock and giving it to John, who declined; Robbie shrugged his shoulders and took a puff from it, pursing his fat lips around the mouthpiece.

“He mentioned that play at the Shakespeare,” he continued, “He reads the penny bloods, you know? A true oddity, that Billy; all the same, before I could stop him, he told me the story of The Vampyre and mentioned Lord Ruthven.”

“He doesn’t exist,” the doctor said, “At least not under that name.”

 “What do you know about flagellation?” Robbie asked, puffing at his pipe. “You,” he said, pointing at the detective, “should be familiar with it.”

“If you are alluding to public school canings, I have never received nor administered any. I do not fancy those practices, no matter what you may have been led to believe,” Sherlock said, curtly.

“No need to get flustered, Sir. Just something I heard from boys as sometimes sleep with nobs,” the boy explained. “What I meant to say is that there is a rumour going round that I don’t half like the sound of. It appears that a group of gentlemen of the upper classes are congregating in a secret house and going at each other with the birch.”

“Even if that were the case,” John intervened, “What is it to do with you, us or our fictitious Lord Ruthven?”

“I’m getting there, Sir,” Robbie said, stretching one of his legs in a balletic movement.

“It also appears that they enjoy using street boys for their delectation and that said boys have been known to disappear, so to speak, never be found again.”

“Only boys?” asked the detective.

“That’s the other thing,” said the boy. “The rumour has it that they dress up, like at a masquerade, so that’s not easy to know one way or the other, not for certain.”

“And you think Lord Ruthven may be a disguise used by one of these gentlemen?” enquired the doctor.

“’Tis possible,” replied Robbie, “Considering they play dress up and engage in all sorts of disgusting goings-on.”

“Flagellation being one of them,” murmured Sherlock.

“Yes, that’s what I have been told.”

“But who told you and why can’t they be more helpful?” asked John.

“Because they are dead!” cried the boy, at last showing his young age and his emotions. “A good friend of mine, a _very_ good friend of mine was found floating in the Camden canal two days ago. They said he’d drowned but he had signs on his back where he’d been flogged with the birch. Not a soul cared, because he was only a street lad, but I ain’t letting them get away with it.”

His grey eyes had turned livid and his cheeks crimson.

“I asked around and I swear I can’t tell you where the story comes from; it’s one of those tales that go from mouth to mouth and end up a lot fatter than when they started.”

“I still don’t see why you think your friend’s death is connected to our Lord Ruthven,” said Sherlock.

“Because,” the boy started, hesitating for an instant. “Because he had a cut on his neck in the shape of a triangle and Wiggins said that is the mark of the vampyre,” he concluded, swiftly, as if ashamed at being caught believing in fairies.

“Alright,” said the detective. “And you don’t know where the secret house is?”

Robbie lowered his gaze and shook his silvery head.

“That’s why I need your help,” he said, in a small voice.

“We shall do our best,” said John, softly. “What was your friend’s name?”

“I used to call him Sultan because he was dark-skinned and always spent hours lying down on the carpet and smoking the pipe,” the boy recalled, with a fond smile, “But his name was Jack Trueby and he was one in a million, Sir.”

“I know,” the doctor replied, trying not to look at Sherlock, and failing. “Believe me, I do.”

 

“Well, that was unexpected,” sighed John.

The detective was lost in a reverie and did not reply, so the drive from Holborn to Covent Garden was a silent if short one.

Only when they pulled in at the Unicorn was Sherlock back to his usual self.

“Lestrade will tell us more about Trueby and perhaps we might even be allowed to perform the dissection of his body.”

“I’m not an anatomist, my dear, and neither are you.”

“You seem to forget that for me this entire case started because of what happened at Barts: highly suspicious cadavers and a surgeon who suspected foul play.

“Mike Stamford!” exclaimed the doctor, “You want Mike to examine that poor boy.”

“If the body is still intact, which I sincerely doubt,” the detective replied, “As a matter of fact, I suspect it may have already been transported to the hospital.”

When they entered the Station, the Inspector was at his desk, arguing with a Bow Street Runner about border invasion, a problem that seemed to occur with regularity ever since the creation of a unified Police force.

When the Runner left, the Inspector turned his weary gaze on them and sighed.

“What happened?” asked John.

“After I got your note, I sent one of my men to Shoreditch to investigate; it seems that he stumbled upon the other lot; they are also keeping an eye on The Birdcage and its whereabouts. It’s hard for them to accept, naturally, but their golden days are over.”

“Have you discovered anything?” enquired Sherlock, indifferent to Lestrade’s trifling problems.

“Not yet, no,” the Inspector replied, “But Craddock – that’s my man – is convinced there’s some foundation to that story seeing as the clothes found in that privy were seen by one of the habitual customers of The Birdcage before they were taken away to be sold in Field Lane. The old fellow, a toothless drunkard with sharp eyes, says he doesn’t recall who was that showed them round the pub – most probably a lie – but he also says it wouldn’t matter anyway, and he’s probably right; a murderer would not parade the clothes of their victim for everyone to see.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said, acidly, “Some criminals are exceedingly dumb. Look at Burke and Hare, they did not exactly cover themselves with glory; nor did the police force over there either.”

“Steady there, Holmes!” exclaimed Lestrade, but with no real bite, “We do what we can with the means that we are given.”

Before his friend could throw another of his daggers, John asked:

“Did he give you a description of those garments?”

“Not a very accurate one, I’m afraid,” Lestrade replied, scratching his head, “But they were of high quality, he insisted: a white shawl and an, hum, undergarment,”

“A petticoat,” interjected Sherlock, speaking in a tone louder than necessary.

Heads turned in their direction and the detective smirked, while John shook his head at his lover’s desultory childishness.

“Yes, yes, it was a petticoat,” the Inspector concurred, patiently, “Made of shimmery white silk; small in size, belonging to a slim woman or a girl, according to my witness.”

“I gather you have sent Craddock to Field Lane now, but I’d rather you leave that to me. They won’t talk to what they call _The Charlies,_ but I may be able to help you.”

“And you think they will talk to you?” Lestrade quipped, casting an eloquent glance at the young man’s sophisticated attire.

“Not to me, but to Wiggins. My boy is familiar with the lie of the land, so to speak.”

“Alright, I trust your judgement, despite what you brother always says.”

“What does he say?” asked the doctor.

“That Sherlock is rash and overly emotional therefore not entirely dependable,” the policeman replied, without looking at the younger Holmes, who huffed loudly.

“He’s probably just a worried older sibling,” said John.

“That’s what I believe, too.”

“No wonder you need my help, considering how much valuable time you waste by dwelling on such trifles,” the detective chided, “We have more pressing matters to resolve, such as the murder of Jack Trueby.”

“Jack who?”

“Trueby, young lad who was found dead in the Camden Canal, signs of mutilation on his back and to the side of his neck.”

Lestrade mused a while then rifled through his desk drawer’s contents and finally extracted a paper which contained the list of people recently deceased under suspicious circumstances.

“Yes, yes, I see, but from what it says here, nothing proves it was a murder, could have been an accident or even suicide; the wounds on his back where probably due to whipping, but they did not cause his death which was probably due to drowning.”

“Probably?” asked the doctor, “You didn’t dissect the body?”

“We gave it to the hospital; told them to wait in case family came to reclaim it.”

“Which hospital?”

“We thought about King’s, but the chief here mistrusts new institutions, so we gave it to Barts. If no one turns up, they’ll probably cut it open today or tomorrow.”

“The boy had friends who may want to say goodbye,” said John, looking his friend in the eye, remembering that first conversation they had about dead lovers.

“Street urchins have many so-called _friends_ who frequently turn out to be profiteers keen to make a few guineas from the sale of their _friend_ ’s cadaver.”

“You should be able to tell real distress from mere theatrics,” the doctor insisted.

“Why do I have the feeling that you are hiding things from me?”

“John is right, which is why we have to hurry, my dear fellow. We need a note from you granting us permission to examine the body of Jack Trueby. Doctor Stamford will assist us, if you mention him in your paper.”

Lestrade gazed at both men then shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to do as told.

His experience with Mycroft had taught him to not argue when a Holmes demanded something with urgency; he knew there was no denying them.

“A white shawl,” Sherlock said, as they drove at breakneck speed towards St. Bartholomew’s. “It’s suggestive, don’t you think?”

“Miss Clairmont was wearing white in that portrait we saw,” John agreed.

“And most of the shawls and pelerines in her room were white, too,” added the detective.

“Do you think she’s been killed like Jack Trueby; drowned in that well then sold to an anatomist?”

The young man bit his lips and let out a groan of frustration.

“Something eludes me, I’m sure of it; there’s a pattern, a cunning design behind all these seemingly unrelated events and I’ll be damned if I discern it!”

“You will, my dear,” replied John, patting his lover’s arm, “I’m absolutely sure of it.”


	14. The Changeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enters Mike Stamford.  
> Also, a dollop of graphic smut, so mind the tags.  
> The times we are living in demand a lot of loving and good sex, so here it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: What I wrote about Sir Astley Cooper is all true. Poor dogs and poor boys.  
> Note 2: The Martin Luther story was published also in Deutsche Sagen (German Legends) by the Grimm Brothers.

_“Eight years ago at Dessau, I, Dr. Martin Luther, saw and touched a changeling. It was twelve years old, and from its eyes and the fact that it had all of its senses, one could have thought that it was a real child. It did nothing but eat; in fact, it ate enough for any four peasants or threshers. It ate, shit, and pissed, and whenever someone touched it, it cried. When bad things happened in the house, it laughed and was happy; but when things went well, it cried. It had these two virtues. I said to the Princes of Anhalt: 'If I were the prince or the ruler here, I would throw this child into the water — into the Molda that flows by Dessau.”_

_Martin Luther – written in 1532._

 

* * *

 

They had been fortunate, if being in the presence of the corpse of a dead boy could ever be considered in such terms.

The frosty weather conditions and the unusual excess of bodies for examination had contributed to the quasi-miracle of Jack Trueby still being in one piece.

The expression on the rubicund face of Mike Stamford - when he saw Sherlock and John entering together - was almost as improbable: usually a placid, unflappable man, invariably in good spirits, the Barts surgeon was seldom caught by surprise.

“When did that happen?” he couldn’t refrain from asking, his kind brown eyes widening in surprise.

John opened his mouth, but naturally his friend stole his thunder.

“We met one night at a graveyard and we agreed to work together: it’s convenient and not unpleasant. Satisfied?” he said, with a mixture of flippancy and pride.

“I’m with him now,” added John, simply; the two surgeons had a brief and silent conversation, after which Stamford expressed his joy and offered his congratulations.

The detective tried to deny the underlying implications of the man’s reaction, but found that he could not, so he merely nodded and handed him Lestrade’s note.

“Yes, he’s here,” Stamford said, and led them to the freezing cold dissecting-room where, on a bench, covered by a rough cotton sheet, was the body in question.

“We were thinking that perhaps, since no family reclaimed him, we should ask his friend to come and say goodbye,” John suggested.

“I doubt he’ll want to see him in the state he's in,” Stamford replied, giving him one of his sad little smiles.

And in truth, when the body was displayed in front of them, its bloated, livid state did not invite the contemplation of a loved one.

Sherlock bent down to inspect Trueby’s neck and noticed that there was a trickle of fresh blood oozing from the wounds.

“This is not an unusual occurrence,” he commented, taking a little vial from his pocket and proceeding to collect a sample of that liquid.

“Quite normal,” Stamford concurred. “The flow of blood is due to posthumous circulation induced by the formation and accumulation of gas in the abdominal cavity. This development always takes place some time after the removal of the body from very cold water.”

“May we inspect his back?” John asked and when Mike moved the body, they could observe the seeping welts that covered the poor boy’s dorsum.

“Was his death caused by drowning?” enquired the detective.

“Considering the state of the blood-flow and the superficiality of the wounds, it would appear so.  Suffocation and shock also prevent clotting, but there no signs of the former and insufficient proof of the latter.”

He inspected the boy’s scalp and his nails and found nothing of interest. The observation of his genitalia showed that he’d been engaging in copulation with other men, but there were no visible lacerations, only a tell-tale enlargement of the rectum.

“What of the incisions on the neck?” John said, exceedingly aware of his lover’s delightful embarrassment. “It has been said, in jest, that they may be the marks of the vampyre.”

He expected Mike to laugh at him, but the Barts surgeon’s rotund face turned serious.

“These legends have caused all sort of trouble in the past,” he said. “Innocent children were killed on the flimsiest pretext; and all because of foolish superstitions.”

“The conviction that revenants and witches wouldn’t sink in water because they had rejected baptism contributed to the institute of the trial by water,” Sherlock explained, “If the accused was found guilty of not sinking when immersed in water, he would be condemned as a vampyre or a witch.”

“I would say these have been caused by the bite of an animal; a dog most probably,” Stamford said. “But they wouldn’t have caused the boy’s death.”

“Could it have been a more exotic predator?” the detective asked.

“What, like a tiger or a lion?” quipped Mike.

“Yes; or even the beak of a hawk or an eagle” replied Sherlock, quite seriously.

“A ferocious feline would have ravaged his throat, but the peck of a bird, provided he was caged and didn’t get a change to inflict further damage, yes, I suppose that it is possible.”

He was alluding to the Vivarium owned by Rowland’s father, John thought, but didn’t say it out loud.

While Stamford prepared the instruments for the dissection, the detective sketched a rough portrait of Trueby, paying particular attention to the size and shape of the wounds.

“Why would a rapacious bird bite him on the neck?” his friend asked.

“Trueby may have leaned too close to the cage or it may have been a strange rite of passage, similar to the Forty Thieves’ tattoo.”

“When Mike mentioned a dog, something stirred in me; a half-forgotten memory. I can’t think what it was.”

“It will come to you, if you leave it alone,” the detective said, accurately replicating the striations on the boy’s back with the precise strokes of his pencil across the creamy paper.

“I didn’t know you could draw so skilfully.”

“There’s little art in my poor efforts, but I trust they will prove useful once the subject itself is no longer extant for observation.”

“Poor boy,” John sighed, “One wonders what depths of depravity he was forced to sink to before he left this world.”

“Since there are no signs of strangulation, he may have been already intoxicated when he was pushed into the canal.”

“You think he was drugged?”

“Yes, I do. Burke and Hare did that to their victims and even if these are not imitation murders, it would tally with there being no visible sign of struggle. His muscles are well-developed; he would have tried to defend himself.”

“Unless,” said the doctor, “he had been convinced it was a ritual or perhaps, a game.”

“In order to prove whether he was a vampyre and could float on water,” Sherlock continued, “A changeling child, that did nothing but lie down and eat and smoke,” he quoted.

“What?”

“It’s a legend purporting that Martin Luther encountered a changeling, a boy who had only animalistic needs; he suggested the child should be drowned; once,” the detective continued, his voice little more than a murmur, “Once, not long ago, I was told there was little humanity in me; that I was not steeped in normality, but in a form of madness that laced my heart with ice.”

John’s throat constricted, but his voice did not falter.

“I don’t want to know who said that or I fear I may hurt them,” he said, “There is only beauty in you, and astounding brilliance.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened and his fingers tightened around the pencil.

“No child deserves to be treated thus,” the doctor insisted, firmly, as Mike returned with his scalpels.

The contents of Trueby’s stomach revealed that he’d had a last meal of potatoes and rum, but it was impossible to tell whether any drug had been ingested too; the only thing Stamford could conclude was that the digestive organs were in good conditions, thus eliminating the eventuality of death by poisoning.

“If he’d imbibed laudanum, it would have left no trace after a long spell in the water,” the anatomist said. “My opinion is the same as before the procedure: death by drowning. He wasn’t hit on the head or strangled and there are no other wounds or abnormalities, aside from those we have noticed on the skin of his back and neck.”

They left Mike to his unseemly task of sewing the boy back together and walked out into the foggy twilight.

 

In their absence, Billy had been dispatched to Field Lane to enquire about the clothes found in the well. He had no good news to convey to them, but he’d given the task to the Fort Thieves who, under strict orders from Silver Robbie, would eventually discover the garments' fate, provided they had indeed been sold in the environs of Saffron Hill.

 

At Baker Street, John was still subdued; after the story of the changeling, he’d fallen into a brown study from which his friend had been wary to disturb him.

“There was nothing we could have done, my dear,” he murmured, as he stoked the embers in the drawing room’s fireplace.

“Young people's death is hard to accept,” the doctor replied, in a low, dejected tone, “I have seen many a man killed while in the very bloom of life and always feel as useless as the first time.”

“Your choice of profession declares quite the opposite: you help the sick regain their health.”

“You must be truly worried,” John said, smiling, “Or you would not be stating the obvious.”

The detective frowned but was soon rewarded with a soft kiss on the lips.

“Come with me,” he whispered, as an idea came into his head.

Taking his friend by the hand, he guided him to his chamber, a place he’d never shown to any of his acquaintances.

The doctor seemed to be aware of it, as he gazed around with reverence, not daring to move until given permission to.

“You can explore, if you so wish,” Sherlock said.

The furnishings were neither luxurious nor spartan, but rather suited to the young man’s needs: the bed was large and comfortable; the mahogany desk sturdy and endowed with a quantity of drawers, and the library was of painted wood with no fancy accoutrements to stand in the way.

The porcelain basin with pitcher and soap was to the side of the bed, suitably disguised inside an alcove. Connected by a door, was a small boudoir in which the detective's wardrobe was stored.

“What are these?” asked his friend, indicating a series of labelled jars stacked on the mantelpiece.

“My collection of ash,” he replied, unable to disguise his excitement, “From different types of tobacco and from the burning of various substances. I have examined and catalogued them; I intend to write an essay about them, once the study is sufficiently comprehensive.”

“And did you take some of Silver Robbie’s tobacco?”

“Of course, my dear,” Sherlock said, carefully removing a crumpled silk cloth from his pocket. Inside its folds were a few pinches of snuff, which he quickly placed into an empty glass container.

“You are a true conjurer, my darling,” John murmured, and took the young man’s face in his hands, caressing it with infinite delicacy. “And so very beautiful,” he added, before taking Sherlock’s mouth.

The kiss was languorous and insistent: whenever one drew back, the other would dart forward, and as that dance progressed, their bodies tightened and curled around one another, like flaming vines.

Sherlock’s skin was lilies and cream, and yet suffused with a rosy blush that spread like ink on parchment; John traced its path with the tip of his tongue, from the young man’s jaw down his neck to the opening of his collar.

“Yes, yes,” the detective pleaded, and started fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat with one hand, while the other fiddled with the cravat.

“Here, let me,” said John, and while his lover gazed down at him in a haze of lust, he swiftly removed all that separated him from the young man’s slender chest. After that, he sat him down and divested him of the rest.

Upon the damson brocade coverlet, Sherlock’s body shone like a pearl embedded in velvet; his friend suddenly froze, struck by the purity of that image.

“Please, please,” the young man begged, and it was enough: in the space of a breath, John was on him, pressing him down on the mattress with his entire body, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“Before,” he croaked, his lips sore from kisses and bites, “What Mike said about Trueby’s genitalia. I don’t know…” His voice broke; he stared at his companion’s face with darkened eyes, but couldn’t continue.

“We don’t have to do that, if you don’t wish to,” John said, inhaling the smoky scent of Sherlock’s curls.

“You must have done it, many times.”

Brows furrowed and flushed cheeks, he was the sweetest thing the doctor had ever held in his arms.

“To be truthful, not that many, and most of them were rushed affairs,” he replied, “This is utterly different.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock, closing his eyes.

“You are one in a million, my darling,” he whispered, and licked at the seam of his lover’s mouth, until it invited him and kept him there.

In his haste to take possession of that entrancing body, John had forgotten about his own situation: his arousal was straining against the placket of his smallclothes and his skin ached all over, but he couldn’t leave Sherlock, not while the youth was shaking and moaning underneath him.

But he was in bed with a very observant man who, even in the throes of passion, could read the thoughts in his head.

“You are uncomfortable,” the detective whispered, and between the two of them, they hastened to remove what still kept them apart.

John’s arousal, hot and seeping, was leaving a pearlescent trail on Sherlock’s cheek and across his lips; and the young man was muttering broken words and licking furiously at the twitching slit, desperate to get at the source of its juice. Fingers tugged at sweaty curls, firmly but not hard enough to hurt.

“I want to,” Sherlock panted, his mouth full, his eyes rolling back inside his head.

And just as his lover was trying to find words to reply, he moved away and kneeled on the bed, face down, legs splayed and rounded buttocks on full display.

John forgot about speech, anxious as he was to not spend immediately because of the sight before him and the thought of what was about to happen.

To calm himself down, he caressed the unmarred length of his friend’s back and admired the perfection of its proportions, but that brought back images of Jack Trueby and the horror of his ordeal.

“I need you, please,” the detective choked out, and it was then that John knew what he had to do.

“There is something I’ve always wanted and never tried,” he said, as he grazed the young man’s loins with his teeth,

He stood up and poured some water in the basin, dipping a piece of soap in it; then he wetted a piece of cloth with the mixture and, under Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze, went back to the bed.

The detective’s erection had waned a little, but in the very instant the sopped fabric rubbed against the sensitive skin of his testicles, it filled up again.

“You are infinitely precious to me,” John said, hoarsely, as he stroked between the young man’s legs and up, to the base of his spine.

When the operation was done, his mouth felt as hot and full as his penis.

“Here,” he croaked, and bent down to take Sherlock’s heavy sac in his mouth.

 

The sensation was exquisite and torturous, at the same time.

Dripping wet, feverish, dirty and pushing him in all directions, nerves and veins a-fire: wave after wave of dark pleasure, starting at the root of his prick and spreading all over, gathering fire as it went.

John’s tongue was licking and piercing him: the tip drawing circles around the furled ring, mouth suckling and teeth nipping, the flat of it lapping hungrily at the seam of his buttocks; fingers spreading him open wide, digging into his flesh.

“Ah, ah,” he kept crying, but didn’t know for what.

At one point, his lover reached out blindly with one hand, wanting to soothe Sherlock’s ache. It wasn’t what he yearned for, no, so he wailed “No, no,” but his insides were already fluttering, contracting. Suddenly the mouth was gone, replaced by a blunt finger that penetrated him brutally and stroked him from within.

He died in that moment, or so he believed, for the space of a wild, endless scream.

When he came back to life, the covers were soaked with his discharge, and he was being held tight and caressed.

“You still haven’t,” he gasped, feeling the lewd slap of John’s hardened member against his abdomen.

He felt heavy and slow, but wanted it inside his mouth; he barely had his lips on it, when it throbbed and spurted violently, with such force that it painted Sherlock’s face and throat; his lips were thick with it and he licked them dry, eating up as much ejaculate as he could.

“I’m sorry, my love,” his friend apologised, his entire body still trembling, chest heaving for lack of breath.

He shook his head, dipped a finger into the mess on his cheek and sucked it into his mouth.

“I love you so much,” John confessed, raggedly, “I don’t know what I’d do if,” he added, but Sherlock did not let him finish.

“Hold me,” he asked, and coated as they were in sweat and semen, they clung to one another like survivors on a raft.

 

“I remember now,” exclaimed the doctor; and the silence had been so dense and sensual Sherlock was still floating on it.

“What is that you remember?” he asked, vaguely.

“The dogs,” replied John, who’d become so excited he’d dislodged the detective’s head from where it reposed in the crook of his shoulder.

“I recall someone saying that Sir Astley Cooper inveigled young boys into steeling stray dogs for him, so that he could experiment on them. There was talk of a ligature to the carotid artery, to see whether or not it dissolved. His house is at St. Mary Axe and has painted windows, much as Brookes’ Museum.”

“Does he have a dissecting-room too?” the detective asked, the haze of sleep utterly dispelled.

“Yes,” replied John, smiling, “yes, I believe he does.”

“We should pay him a visit, too.”

“I seem to recall that your brother suggested something along these lines.”

Sherlock huffed and shook his curls in an imperious way.

“No, he did not and even if he had, he would have recommended obsequiousness, while we will do nothing of the sort.”

“Of course, we won’t,” agreed John, laughing and pulling the young man back into his arms.


	15. The Lustful Turk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to the Museum... it's not as fun as it sounds.  
> Brief mention of non-consensual sex with a minor (not involving John/Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Lustful Turk, or Lascivious Scenes from a Harem is a pre-Victorian British erotic epistolary novel first published anonymously in 1828 by John Benjamin Brookes. The tale is lewd, long and complicated and ends with a penis in a jar. That's all you need to know, really.

_“Dr. Gall called together boys from the streets, and made them fight. There were, of course, some who were fond of it, and others who were peaceable and timid. In those who came willing to blows, that part of the head which corresponds to the posterior inferior angle of the parietal bone behind the mastoid process, was prominent; in those who declined the combat, the same place was flat or depressed.”_

_Phrenology, or, The Doctrine of the Mind (excerpt) by_ _Johann Gaspar Spurzheim_

 

* * *

 

“I think your Billy is driving in the wrong direction,” John said, in some alarm, “Unless we have been kidnapped again, that is.”

Outside the window was the Small Pox Hospital and they were fast approaching the Pancras Gasworks.

“No, this precisely where I told him to go,” Sherlock replied, feigning to inspect the lining of his leather gloves.

“This isn’t the way to Blenheim Steps; aren’t we going to Brookes’ Museum?”

“That can wait, my dear,” said the detective, gaze skittering between the glove and John’s worried countenance. “St. Mary Axe, on the other hand, may provide us with more invaluable information.”

“You can’t mean,” the doctor exclaimed, “We can’t break into the home of the most renowned surgeon in the city. Even if we do avoid Newgate Prison, I would be struck off. Sir Astley is a very powerful man.”

“Not as powerful as my redoubtable brother; besides, there is no other way, when you examine all the possibilities: if we obtain an introduction, he will not accept to meet us there and if we perchance contrive to convince him otherwise, there will be nothing for us to see. I trust you have brought your pistol.”

“Yes, of course,” the doctor replied, flustered, “But surely you won’t expect me to shoot at the lock this time.”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, clicking his tongue, “I will use my skeleton key. I have one that was made for me by a famous robber who’s sailed to the colonies. He probably struck gold and is a rich man by now.”

“Or maybe he’s six feet under,” muttered his friend, “Well… at least over there no-one will dig him out and sell his body for a few guineas.”

They looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“Why tonight? We could have waited until we knew more about his daily habits,” John asked, his lips still quirked into a smile.

“It’s Saturday, which means tomorrow he will not be at work.”

“He’s a surgeon, my dear, not a butcher.”

“An illustrious physician, not a mere surgeon,” retorted Sherlock, “I imagine he’s not at anyone’s beck and call, but rather that he does select his patients and his activities with great care. His free time is surely dedicated to cultivating the society of other eminences, especially those in the same field of expertise.”

John sighed and cast a resigned look at his companion.

“You know where he has gone tonight, don’t you?” he said.

The detective flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the crown of his hat, which sat on his knees.

“I may have heard about a certain event of the Royal College of Surgeons.”

“May have heard?”

“Oh, all right!” growled the detective, “I read it in The Lancet while you were scoffing the steak and kidney pie. The jollification is at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and all the College Members should be present.”

 “I may have been _scoffing_ , but you filched at least half of it,” his friend replied, “Since we are unburdening our souls, let me inform you that I do notice your little deceptions, even though we may continue pretending that I don’t.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” replied the detective, with an air of lèse–majesté.

“Sir Astley and his wife will both be there and as for his servants, they will not be up at this hour; not when the master of the house is at a revel and not expected back until daybreak,” he continued.

“What is the plan, my deceitful madman?”

The young man flushed at the odd endearment and, clearing his throat, proceeded to explain:

“First, we shall examine the grounds. The house is adjoined to a vast park, and I wonder if perhaps it may contain a hut or a small cottage where a boy may have been kept prisoner, tied up and drugged.”

“What?” cried John, his eyes round as saucers, “You don’t seriously believe Sir Astley Cooper would… what?”

“You heard what Stamford said: the wound on Trueby’s neck was in all likelihood a dog bite; you admitted that Cooper has been rumoured to corrupt young boys in order to be provided with stray dogs. Now, why would someone like Trueby who, by his friend’s account, was an idler and a sensualist be interested in chasing dogs if not for a reason connected with either drugs or the promise of carnal pleasure? And what if, emboldened by his association with the Forty Thieves, the boy had seen something he shouldn’t have and threatened to blackmail the surgeon?”

“I suppose it could have happened like you say, but what would that have to do with the disappearance of Miss Clairmont? After all, we have been hired to find her and this must take precedence, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, my dear, by all means, but what if Sir Astley was Lord Ruthven? Baring Brothers is not far from Cooper’s abode and he could easily arrange a deposit without using his real name.”

“Why would he fund a vampyre play and do it under a false name? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“This vampyre theme may just be a red herring, my dear. Behind this charade, there may be only a cunning fiend and his nefarious commerce of organs for experimentation.”

“And what of Miss Clairmont?” insisted John.

“She may have gone to the Museum and met Rowland Brookes. He may have been entranced by her beauty,” Sherlock explained.

“I don’t think his preference lies with the fairer sex,” the doctor protested, taking his lover’s hand in his and pressing a kiss on its palm.

“Well,” stuttered the young man, momentarily losing his train of thought, “Let’s assume you are wrong and that he was taken in by her alluring countenance and spoke too hastily about his own role in some audacious scheme. After that, she had to be disposed with. They may have taken her to the theatre’s dungeon then…”

“Killed her by drowning her in a well and then buried her at Holywell Mount,” concluded the doctor. “Is this what you believe really happened? It still doesn’t explain why Cooper would involve a theatrical company in his evil scheme.”

“It may not be quite so simple,” replied Sherlock, smiling wickedly.

“Oh, you mischievous little thing, you fabricated the entire story!”

“Not all of it, just the part about Lord Ruthven,” the detective conceded, “But I do suspect Cooper may be responsible for Trueby’s demise.”

“The lad had been whipped.”

“And don’t you consider it suspicious that a great physician should recruit young boys to do his sordid work? Why not pay a servant or hire some poor wretch in want of occupation?”

John paled, as a wave of nausea swept over him.

“It may be avarice, but considering his public stature, it is quite unlikely, I agree.”

 In the meantime, they had arrived at Bishopsgate; as they stepped out of the hansom cab, the sound of church bells resonated in the chilly, starless night.

“St. Andrew has replaced St. Mary at the Axe, which gave the name to the Street,” the detective explained as they walked past the diminutive white building.

“Eleven thousand of the Saint’s handmaidens were decapitated together with her when she refused to marry a brutish Hun.”

“Rivers of blood,” John murmured, shuddering.

“I’m sorry dear; I didn’t want to bring back bad memories.”

“I fear that there will always be the threat of war hanging over us,” the doctor replied, “We are never too far from it. Not when men like Sir Astley are allowed free rein just because they are rich and have a title.”

“Evil will not prevail, John,” said Sherlock, firmly, “We won’t allow it.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said his friend, grinning, “Detective, genius and revolutionary. You did mention Marat, that time you barged in while I was in the bath.”

“Hardly a revolutionary,” argued the young man, “But I won’t deny there are aspects of the French Revolution that I find invigorating. What I dislike if the lack of a cooler, more measured approach.”

They had to stop as the blond man was overwhelmed by a fit of spasmodic laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “But the thought of the guillotine-crazy Jacobins being forced by you into calming down and having a cup of tea instead, is just,” he explained, tears in his amused eyes.

“Oh hush,” huffed the detective, “We have a dangerous mission to accomplish.”

And indeed they had reached an imposing brown-stone building that rose three-storey high, topped by turrets and a gilt weathervane.

Laurel bushes and holly trees decorated the front garden, while the white-painted gate stood proudly between them and the muddy road, like Cerberus guarding Hades.

Oddly, the gate passage was unlocked; as they made their way in, they were enveloped by an unpleasant scent.

“Hemlock,” murmured Sherlock, pointing to a plant with purplish stems and little white flowers, “Trueby may not have been poisoned, by those dogs of his, now we know what sort of deaths awaits them, after the torture.”

“Better be careful then.”

Far away, in the distance, among the groaning oak branches, an owl hooted.

The house was bathed in darkness, but their eyes had become accustomed to it and they could follow the path to the side of the building with little difficulty.

Once they turned the corner, it was like they had left London and been plunged into a countryside idyll: trees surged all around them and the gentle slope of a hillock wound down to a grassy glade that, come spring, would be dotted with flowers.

“Lovely,” commented John, inhaling deeply.

“Look there,” Sherlock murmured, lighting the Carcel lamp they had brought with them.

Nestled within a clump of oaks and almost completely hidden by them was a smallish hut, with a thatched roof and boarded windows.

“You were right,” replied John. “Is it wise to show our presence?”

“If I’m right, Cooper’s servants have been warned to not venture outside the immediate vicinity of the house and even inside it, I bet there are quarters into which they are not allowed.”

Up close, the hut was larger in size, more like a cottage, and while it was clearly uninhabited, the door showed signs of usage.

“The joins have been oiled,” said Sherlock, touching a finger to the metal in question.

“They wouldn’t want the door to freeze shut.”

“Will your key work or do I have to use my pistol?”

“I may have lied,” the detective said and, extracting a kit from a leather pouch, he carefully selected two keys. “There is more than one.”

The second one fitted inside the opening with a satisfactory click and, silently, the door opened on its hinges.

What lurid expectations they had entertained, were immediately dispelled by the spectacle that greeted them: where they’d imagined whips, chains, knives and torture benches, were instead brocade furnishings, comfortable settees and luxuriously-bound books. A stone fireplace contained the ashes of recent usage and the only suggestive implement was the silken whip that lay across an elegantly upholstered chair.

Sherlock said nothing, but bent down to inspect the object then moved away to examine the volumes stacked on the rosewood shelves.

“Oh, my god, John, look at this,” the young man whispered urgently, handing his friend a booklet bound in a vivid yellow cover.

“The Lustful Turk,” read the doctor, with a smirk that soon disappeared “by John Benjamin Brookes. Brookes? Hell ablaze, my love, look at this picture,” he urged, showing a drawing of a severed penis preserved in a glass vase.

“Hmm, and there’s more here: a veritable treasure trove of lewd publications,” said Sherlock, eyes ablaze with excitement. “Together with a smattering of erudite texts such as Combe’s The Constitution of Man and Spurzheim's Doctrine of the Mind… oh, I see, yes, I see!”

“What, my dear?” asked John, but his companion was already lost in a reverie that had him in a trance, his eyes rapidly blinking and his mouth pressed in to a tight, blanched line. When he awakened from it, he was seized by a sort of maniacal energy,

“We have to go, there’s no time to lose!” he cried and strode out of the hut, taking John roughly by the arm.

“What’s happened; where are we going in such haste?” the blond man demanded, while the detective locked the door with frantic fingers.

“To Brookes’ Museum, of course: where else?” replied the young man, impatiently.

“I trust you will explain along the way,” said John and, with no further ado, they ran back to the carriage, accompanied by the cawing of the night birds.

 

“What do the people we have been dealing with have in common, my dear?” asked Sherlock, twitching in his seat like a man possessed.

“An unseemly interest in death, corpses and severed limbs,” replied his friend.

“Yes, that too,” the detective acquiesced, “But I ask you to go deeper than this and think of the Miss Lights and their interest in Swedenborg’s work, Miss Clairmont and her somnambulism, Life in Death and all this humbug about vampyres. What does all of this suggest?”

“That people can be convinced of anything as long as it sounds far-fetched and it’s spelled out in Latin?”

His companion scoffed, but he was only too happy to unravel the thread of his deductions.

“Perhaps, but it also signifies that someone is seeking the secret to eternal life, but instead of merely discussing it in theoretical terms, they are bent on providing empirical proof. But, not content with only preserving the life of the flesh, they want to find a way to assure the soul will not desert the body. To this purpose, they are trying to locate the seat of this elusive spirit, and by Jove, they are essaying each and every method known to science and witchery.”

“Who are they?” asked John, dumbfounded.

“Difficult to say with any certainty, my dear,” sighed Sherlock, “The participants won’t speak, too afraid of becoming part of the experiment themselves; and death is not the end they fear the most, but rather a living torture that would cut into them, atrocious and slow.”

“That poor girl,” the doctor said, shaking his head glumly. “We should tell Lestrade.”

“Tell him what? That a famous surgeon reads lewd books? That – amongst the many organs in Brookes’ menagerie - some may belong to street boys who have been lured in the hope of a better life?”

“I don’t know,” was the frustrated reply, “But we can’t let them do what they like just because we have no proof yet.”

“We shall find it tonight… soon, if we are lucky.”

“You seem sure of it.”

“The boy has been sewn back together and sent for interment. What better time to remove the organ they wish to preserve? They would have done that before, if he had not escaped and fallen, half drugged into the Canal.”

“What, how did you come to this conclusion?”

“The silken whip, did you not look at it closely? It was threaded with thin metal and had been recently cleaned, but there was a minute crust of blood at the base of the handle. Trueby was lured there, offered dinner and drugged. His torture had just started, when he must have awakened enough to be able to run away. He was a strong, muscled youth.”

“And the wound on his neck?”

“Either a dog or a bird,” said Sherlock, “There were a number of birds outside Cooper’s residence.”

“They don’t usually attack humans of their own volition.”

“There’s very little that is _usual_ in this enterprise, my dear; and so much that is still hidden behind a screen of prejudice.”

“What do you mean?”

The detective was precipitated into another of his trances, from which he emerged a while later, looking dissatisfied.

“You know which is most successful criminal, my dear?” he asked, rhetorically, “The one that latches onto a pre-existing unlawful scheme and operates alongside it, like a leech feeding off a cow.”

“A secret adversary?” suggested the doctor.

“Perchance even more than one,” replied Sherlock, solemnly.

 

Oxford Street was noisy and crowded compared to Bishopsgate, but when they descended into Blenheim Steps the clamour receded and by the time they got to the Museum, the city seemed as empty as a dead star.

Sherlock had left the gas-lamp in the cab, convinced as he was that they would find their criminal in the act.

Softly, they unlocked the front door and as nimbly as they could, they tiptoed inside the musty entrance.

They remembered the dank room with the squelching floor and moved quietly in that direction. The door was closed, and there was no suspicious noise coming from behind it: could they have been wrong?

Sherlock motioned towards John’s pistol, and the doctor nodded.

“On the count of three,” he murmured, and started raising his fingers.

Swiftly, yet with very little commotion, they entered the dissecting-room finding it deserted, except for a few scuttling mice.

“I was wrong,” said Sherlock, with a mixture of annoyance and bafflement. “I am never wrong.”

On a bench they found a lamp and some tinder; when the light illuminated the squalid place, it only confirmed what they already knew.

“Something is afoot, I can feel it,” the detective murmured.

“What, by the pricking of your thumbs?” whispered John, grinning, a little breathless. It may have been a fruitless attempt on their part, but no one could say it wasn’t exciting all the same.

“Let’s explore the rest of it.”

“I’d rather not see Napoleon’s bits in the dead of night, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the Museum, but rather the back of the house. We haven’t been there last time, but I distinctly remember a door, to the side of the staircase. Here, follow me and don’t speak a word.”

Sherlock was right and, when they opened the door, they came upon a long, narrow corridor that led to what must have once been the servants’ quarters.

“Listen,” the detective murmured.

Amongst the creaks and groans of the sleeping house, was the low keening of an injured animal or a suffering human being.

“Careful,” warned John, but to no avail.

The detective was already running towards the source of the lament, and when the doctor caught up with him, his friend was kicking the door open.

“Stop!” the young man intimated “Stop!” and the lamp, shaking in his grasp, projected against the wall the shadow of the beast with two backs.

Sweaty and grunting, Rowland Brookes was pushing violently inside the body of a smaller person whose face was turned away from them and whose longish hair was dark and shiny.

“Oh Christ,” exclaimed John when he saw the scarf around the scrawny neck and recognised it as his own cotton handkerchief. “Tom Trader,” he gasped, and the boy turned glassy, empty eyes towards him and in a broken voice said “Sherlock Holmes, ‘tis a good name.”


	16. All Things Will Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened at the Museum?  
> Warning: unpleasant things happened.

_“The stream will cease to flow;_  
_The wind will cease to blow;_  
 _The clouds will cease to fleet;_  
 _The heart will cease to beat;_  
 _For all things must die._  
 _All things must die.”_

_All Things Will Die (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

 

* * *

 

Darkness.

Where was he? John blinked furiously but could not see anything. For a terrible moment, he felt like in childhood when, upon waking up in the middle of the night, he used to fear he’d suddenly gone blind.

Underneath his cheek, the wooden floor was damp and foetid.

“Sherlock?” he whispered, but no answer came.

The back of his head was tender and painful, and when he touched it, his finger met with an eloquent wetness.

He’d been hit with a blunt implement and he’d lost consciousness. The lamp was gone and so was his friend. And what of the horrible vision of abuse they’d witnessed: had it been all just a nightmare, the equivalent of Smarra?

He couldn’t believe he had dreamt what he had seen and yet it was so absurd as to truly resemble a story told by a madman.

The room felt empty, so he staggered around, trying to find the way out.

Once into the corridor, he could half-see what was around him, but when he reached the staircase, suddenly a light shone from the dissecting-room and, filled with hope, he opened the door and went inside: the gas-lamp was on the same bench where they had found it, but Sherlock was not there.

His heart weighing heavy in his chest, he ran back to where he’d come from and looked around: he moved the lamp closer to the surface of the table and - to his horror - found the traces of the horrific act he’d witnessed: a pool of whitish, coagulated liquid mixed with traces of blood.  More bloodstains peppered the wooden surface, some of them dried off and clearly not recent.

Aside from the table, the place contained a series of shelves, all empty, and a tray full of surgical implements.

A sudden sense of unease seized him, the fear that he was being watched.

The Museum was vast and his enemies could be hiding anywhere, but he would not rest until he found Sherlock and Tom.

Forgetting all caution, he ran up the stairs, but came to an abrupt halt when he crunched something underneath his boot: he hesitated for a moment then kneeled down and illuminated the object he’d just stepped over: the papier mâché head was squashed, but it still retained a resemblance to the man on which it had been modelled: black curls, patrician nose, slanted eyes and that oddly shaped upper-lip.

“I will make an image of you,” Tom had said, and so it had come to pass.

And the body was well-replicated too: the long swirling cape, the stiff collar and broad neck-cloth.

It broke his heart, to think they had helped cause Tom all that suffering; it wasn’t directly their fault, as it had been he who had sought them out, but John did not feel absolved, merely angry and desolate.

“Sherlock,” he shouted, at the top of his lungs. He entered the first exhibition room and the elephant loomed over him like a menacing cathedral, the small glassy eyes even more unnerving because of their lidless immobility.

“Where are you?” he cried out, and moving to a second room, he searched it frantically, but even that was devoid of human life.

Stumbling and cursing, he searched room after room until he heard a faint moan seemingly coming from within the enormous glass case housing the pickled whale.

 _Through a glass darkly_ , he remembered that from the Bible, and vaguely, through the glass, he could see the blurry outlines of a huddled figure.

On their previous visit, he had not noticed the niche that was behind the container; but now he saw it and strode towards it; when he got there and shone a light on the scene, he froze to his very core: Sherlock was kneeling down by the lifeless body of the young boy; he had laid his cape out on the floor and Tom Trader was resting on it, his lifeless head lolling in the detective’s lap, his eyes as impenetrable as those of the preserved elephant.

“I can’t close his eyes,” the detective was murmuring, and John saw that his hands were shaking and his jaw was clenched to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Here, my love,” the doctor said and, as delicately as he could, he forced the boy’s eyelids down.  

“Where is Brookes?” he asked, unsheathing his pistol. The young man stared at it and then at him, but said nothing.

“Fool that I am,” John muttered to himself and, making sure the weapon was safe, he took his lover in his arms and held him tight against his chest, caressing his back.

“John,” Sherlock murmured and, “I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t do a single thing. Brookes hit you and I stayed back to check that he hadn’t caused irreparable damage. He stole my lamp and left me in darkness. There must be a secret passage at the end of the corridor that leads upstairs… I ran as fast as I could, but when I got here, the boy was already dead… he must have snapped his neck before he took him here… maybe he did it while he was still… doing that… to him.” A sob shook the young man’s chest and John kissed his wet cheeks and trembling lips.

“We have to find Brookes, and you have to come with me, because I’m not leaving you alone again,” the blond man said, trying to contain his mounting rage.

Sherlock shook his head and touched the boy’s dark fringe with the tip of his fingers.

“I won’t abandon him,” he said, and John hated the guilt and desolation he heard in his friend’s voice.

“Right,” he said, firmly. “I will accompany you and Tom to the cab. You will drive straight to Covent Garden Police Station and inform Lestrade. I will stay here and search for that scoundrel.” He didn’t say more, but his intent was clear.

“No,” replied Sherlock, and grasped the doctor’s arm with intent. “You will not stay behind; I won’t allow it. If anything happened to you,” his voice broke. “No,” he repeated, wild eyes piercing John’s.

“Right,” repeated the older man. “We shall let the Police deal with him then,” he said, unconvinced.

“I’m quite certain he’s no longer here,” the detective said, a shadow of his former commanding self. “Brookes was scared; I could see the terror in his eyes when we entered the room.”

“I only noticed poor Tom’s countenance,” murmured the doctor.

“He acted as quick as lightning,” said Sherlock, his gaze losing focus, as he tried to remember, “He had something in his hand and I had the notion it might be a scalpel; that he would cut Tom’s throat and yours; but he hit you with that object and then I couldn’t see whether you were alive… I didn’t smell blood, but I couldn’t be sure….”

John saw that his lover was on the verge of a nervous crisis and acted accordingly.

“Take my coat,” he said, and removed his woollen over-garment, wrapping it around the detective’s trembling frame. He wished he had his hip-flask with him, but he’d left it at Baker Street.

“Hold on to me, my dear,” he said, and, after having carefully moved Tom’s body so that he was entirely lying on Sherlock’s cape, he helped his friend onto his feet. Within his arms, he seemed as fragile as a Derby porcelain.

“Don’t mind me,” the detective said, in a pitiful attempt to sound unconcerned, “I can look after myself.”

John did not disabuse him of the notion, but stood close to him in case his legs gave way. After a stuttering start, the young man took a few steps without incident, so the doctor let him be and dedicated his attentions to the poor victim at his feet.

He performed a quick examination of the lifeless body and, yes, the boy had been taken with some violence, and the crusted blood on his uncovered genitalia was proof of that. His neck was broken and there were signs of strangulation on the skin of his throat. A few of his nails were broken and bore the traces of struggle. John knelt down to sniff his mouth which reeked of the sickly sweet smell associated with opium.

Certainly the boy had struggled and that’s when he’d been administered the drug; after that he had been malleable, and that despicable Brookes had taken advantage of him; the most likely theory being that he’d been assigned the task to murder the lad, but that he’d wanted to have his horrid way with him first.

John’s hands curled into tight fists: he recalled the lewd looks Brookes had given Sherlock and felt that if he’d ever get hold of that man, he wouldn’t need his pistol to rend him to pieces. The risk they’d just taken, the danger of violation and death had been perilously high and yet only earlier he had treated this as an adventure. He swore he would never do that again: the thrill could still be enjoyed, but exercising caution and, first and the foremost, protecting his companion would have to take absolute precedence.

Deftly, he bundled Tom into Sherlock’s cape, like a most precious package; he then lifted him up ready to carry him away.

When he circumnavigated the glass container, he found his friend there, lost in contemplation of the floating cetacean.

“Life and death,” the detective muttered, “The line is faint, so blurred that at times it is difficult to tell one from the other. Watch this majestic beast: she’s as alive to me as you are; and yet there’s no breath in its lungs. What do these monsters want, John?”

“I’m not sure, my darling, but whatever it is, they will not obtain it. We will fight them with every ounce of strength and cunning we possess.”

“What if they were right?” the young man murmured, desperately. “What if my dead body - dutifully preserved – could acquire the necessary properties that enabled it to survive forever?”

“What, like the Egyptians? I can’t say with absolute certainty, but what I know is that I want you here with me, alive as you are, and not soaking in potassium nitrate like that wretched animal. Eternity would be a paltry substitute for your beating heart, my love. Come on, let’s get out of this charnel.”

 

Their melancholy procession had no witnesses, as the frosty night was at its coldest and loneliest hour. Billy had fallen asleep at the back of the cab: his child-like, pinched face was shielded by a callused hand. John immediately decided what was to be done.

“Get inside,” he urged Sherlock and, once the dumbstruck detective complied, he placed Tom in his care, making sure the boy’s face stayed covered.

“What are you doing?” the young man asked, seeing the doctor walk away.

“What do you think? I’m driving this deuced trap to Covent Garden, is what I’m doing!” the blond man replied, letting his bitterness emerge, at last.

 

The phosphoric yellow of the Police Station’s lamp appeared like a beacon of safety and decency to John’s tired eyes.

The journey, although brief, had awakened Billy; the boy was deeply ashamed at having been caught off guard and he gestured to Sherlock that it would never happen again, but the doctor ignored his protestations and ordered him back to sleep, covering him up with the blanket he usually kept in the driver’s box.

“He wanted to know what I was holding in my lap,” the detective said, in a cold, exhausted tone.

“Wait here; I’ll go see if Lestrade is in tonight.”

To his mild surprise, Sherlock did not oppose him, but merely nodded, once again lost in a reverie.

Unfortunately, the Inspector wasn’t there, but if they waited an hour or so, he would be starting his daily shift by then.

John reflected that they might go home and come back, but he would not leave Tom here and he could scarcely suggest they took him back to Baker Street or left him in a morgue.

“Could we have a cup of tea? Mr Holmes is outside and,” but he was not allowed to finish his sentence. Mycroft Holmes’s name carried a lot of weight within the New Police as he was known as one of the architects of its creation.

He was shown into a well-lit room in which a cheerful fire was roaring and tea was brought in together with bread and butter.

“I suppose you had to give my brother’s name,” said Sherlock, when he finally agreed to relinquish Tom’s body to a duty officer and follow John inside their newly acquired sanctum.

The doctor nodded and received a wan smile in reply.

“I have put three lumps of sugar in yours; it will help with the shock.”

“I’m not in shock,” replied the young man, but he was contradicted by his shuddering muscles.

“Yes, you are and so am I,” his friend argued, softly but firmly. “There’s nothing I would like more than going back home and get inside the tub with you for a scolding-hot bath.”

“I don’t deserve to be made to feel better,” hissed the young man, “I even put you in danger.”

For the first time since he’d awakened on that filthy floor, John touched the back of his head and winced.

“It’s not serious,” he told his frowning friend, “Besides, I have seen much worse as you well know, and as for you, I imagine you must have witnessed a few unsavoury things in the course of your investigations.”

“Purloined jewels and absconding robbers are not the same as slaughtered children or sexual violence,” Sherlock replied, trying to sip the hot drink and ignore the shaky hand that held the cup.

And in truth, blinded as he’d been by the detective’s dazzling charms, he’d almost forgotten the man was little more than a boy, a mere twenty-year-old who had not quite started living as an adult. He stifled his impulse to provide comfort, as he felt it would be welcome in the present moment but not in times to come, and he wished to be with Sherlock for as long as the young man wanted him.

“Death seems unacceptable when it happens right in front of your eyes. How dare it freeze the blood in someone’s veins while we are present? How dare it defy us? Yet it does and we must bow to its supreme cruelty, but never surrender to its siren call. We will do better next time, my dear. You will do better because you _are_ better.”

“Am I? I’m filled with doubts,” the detective said, spitting out the last word.

“Doubts will keep you from diving in head first, my dear. As for me, I will not let any startling surprise distract me from my duty, which is to save both our lives. Next time, I will shoot first and wonder later.”

The lovely sound of Sherlock’s laughter filled the room and John’s heart.

“One thing I’m surely thankful of,” the young man said, his countenance colouring a little, “That I asked you to come and stay with me the moment I saw you; cleverest decision of my life, so far.”

“Even though I nag you about food?” the doctor said, and to underscore the point, he buttered a slice of bread and handed it to his lover.

“We have to accept that there’s always going to be some bad together with the good,” Sherlock declared, and it was John’s turn to laugh.

 

Lestrade burst into the room as if carried by a gusty wind.

“Craddock said you were here,” he said, removing his hat and scratching his head.

“Did he tell you about the boy?” asked Sherlock, whose face was as white as bone china.

“He mentioned it, yes, but I didn’t give him the time to explain,” the man said, eyeing the tea-pot, “A hot cuppa would not go amiss.”

John did the honours, letting the detective explain the incidents of the past night.

“Poor lad,” the Inspector sighed, looking miserable and exhausted even before the start of his shift. “I will go to the Museum with Craddock. We will have to notify Somers; he’s the Coroner,” he explained for the doctor’s benefit.

“Once he’s done with the body, I will pay for his funeral and interment. Those scoundrels will not touch him again,” said Sherlock, through gritted teeth.

“I shall send someone to Brookes’ Vivarium immediately, even though I doubt the swine will be there. Perhaps I should allow the Runners to help me out,” Lestrade said, unconvinced.

“There’s no need,” intervened the detective, “You will do what you can and as for me, I know the right people to find him and their motivation will be much stronger than a paid policeman’s will ever be.”

“Steady there, Junior,” said Lestrade, “I won’t allow you to charge me with dereliction of duty without defending my kith and kin.”

“What would you do if they murdered Craddock?” said Sherlock, “Or another of your men?”

The Inspector conceded the point with a curt nod and, swallowing the dregs of his tea, he stood up, ready to get on with his job.

“You should go home,” he said, patting the doctor on the shoulder, “And have that wound taken care of; physician heal thyself,” he quipped, eliciting a worn smile from the exhausted doctor.

“You will let us know,” said Sherlock, “about the boy, I mean.”

“You have my word.”

                     

Outside, a timid sun shone in the nacreous sky: the dawn of an unpromising day.

Sherlock was holding his cape close to his chest; he had refused to wear it, and was staring at it as if it had been covered with scorpions.

“I always thought you needed a new overcoat,” John said, lightly. “This cape here is not warm enough, even though I have to admit it suits you admirably.”

“You should take yours back, you must be cold,” replied the young man; he made to remove the garment, but the doctor stayed his hand.

“Stay close to me and I shall be fine,” he said, smiling and taking his lover by the hand.

 


	17. In a Trance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a bit of a cuddle (x-rated and all that, so mind the tags)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Lady of Shalott was actually published in 1832.

_“And down the river's dim expanse,_  
_Like some bold seër in a trance_  
 _Seeing all his own mischance--_  
 _With a glassy countenance_  
 _Did she look to Camelot”_

_The Lady of Shalott (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

 

* * *

 

He should have known that his dream of a scolding-hot bath with Sherlock wouldn’t materialise in the manner he’d imagined it.

When at Baker Street, while Billy was being looked after by Mrs Hudson, the detective insisted on writing a note that Wiggins would later deliver to the leader of the Forty Thieves.

“Let me do it for you,” John said, but his friend would not be prevailed upon.

After completing his assignment, Sherlock disappeared into his room, whence immediately after a loud din was heard, of objects being hurled against hard surfaces and stamped on viciously.

“Darling, please let me in,” he pleaded, but the detective had locked the door and would not reply either by speech or gesture.

John decided to prepare the bath and wait for the wild creature to come out of his lair; he would not force him, as he knew that it would push him in the opposite direction.

When the tub was filled to the brim and fragrant with sandal oil, John removed his dressing gown and with a deeply satisfied groan, lowered himself into it.

His wound was nothing but a bruise and it did not need tending to, unlike his heart.

There were few pleasures comparable to the soothing comfort of hot water on chilled, tired muscles, and all of them included the presence of a certain skittish detective.

 “I may have destroyed my collection of ash,” the man in question said, a picture of despondency: his chemise was smeared with dust and so were his curls and cheeks.

“You are in dire need of a good scrub,” replied John, but his lover was hesitating. “I shall come out and there will be water everywhere,” he said.

Sherlock heaved a plangent sigh and stepped into the tub, his undergarment still on.

“I’m sorry about your collection,” said the doctor, undoing the buttons of the creamy shift; the detective raised his arms so that he could be divested of it. The bundle of sodden cotton landed of the floor with a squelching sound.

“It was useless, like most of my foolish little _studies_ ,” the young man hissed. “It was nothing but vanity on my part; believing that I could trace the patterns of a villain’s behaviour by simple research! Volumes upon volumes of printed paper will never predict the impulses of a diseased mind. I could build a towering edifice of theory and it would still crumble in the face of insanity. Civilised as we are, it takes but a moment to reduce us to animal brutality.”

“Yes, I know, my dear.”

He dipped the piece of soap into the water until it lathered and rubbed it across Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms; the young man leaned back into him, so that John could reach around and wash his chest too.

“You don’t have to give them what they want though,” he said, softly stroking his friend’s inner thighs and inching towards his groin.

“And what do they want?” whispered the detective, turning his head so that his lips were a breath away from his friend’s.

“To make us more like them,” said John, raggedly, and then he was cupping the young man’s heavy testicles and licking deeply inside his mouth.

In that position, he was enveloping his lover, and Sherlock’s surrender together with the hot temperature of the room and the intense exhaustion in his bones were making him light-headed; suggestive images of sultry, sensuous carnality came to him, which perhaps, he thought, wouldn’t be appreciated by the detective after what he had been forced to witness. Again, he had forgotten he was in the company of an overly perceptive creature; one that did not hesitate to show him that he understood his scruples but deemed them irrelevant.

“Touch me everywhere,” Sherlock whispered, before taking another devouring kiss.

“I’ll wash your hair first,” replied the blond man, with every intention of delaying their pleasure.

“Not with the soap,” said the detective, indicating a bottle containing a lavender-scented mixture.

“I should have guessed these glorious curls didn’t just _happen_ naturally.”

“What are you suggesting?” sniffed Sherlock.

“That you are the fancy type and that I absolutely love it.”

“It?” asked the detective, arching his neck as John rubbed the lotion onto his scalp.

“Yes,” said the doctor, pulling softly on the drenched, soapy tendrils of hair. “You, I don’t merely love but worship.” At that, he tugged more forcefully so that Sherlock’s head fell on his shoulder; at the same time, he squeezed his lover’s erection, which had fully hardened and was oozing at the slit.

“Let me show you,” he gasped, and suckled the flushed throat; his free hand slid down and, with fingers still slippery from the lavender mixture, he coaxed the rosy nipples into pointed tips, rolling them between his fingers.

The other hand was alternating rough strokes to Sherlock’s angry-red member to delicate fondling of his taut sac.

“More, more,” the young man begged, trying to writhe and push up with his hips, but finding himself pinned against the strong body of his lover.   

“Give me your mouth,” John choked out and, as his tongue mated with his lover’s, the speed and viciousness of his fingers increased, until he felt the slender body stiffen and give in to the potent shudders of orgasm.

“You belong to me,” he repeated, over and over, until the boy’s tremors and moans subsided.

“What about you?” Sherlock murmured, feeling his lover’s erection as it poked the small of his back.

“I don’t need much; just the touch of your skin.”

“That would be an unfair deal.”

“You’re severely mistaken, if you think what just happened was an act of generosity,” said John, licking the bite mark he’d just left on his friend’s neck.

“And don’t I get to have my pleasure?” the young man whispered.

“Anything you want, you shall have.”

Sherlock took hold of his lover’s hand and sucked the thumb into his mouth, lapping at its underside.

“Yes,” was all John said, and moving away from the detective, he stood up inside the tub, water streaming down his body.

Swiftly, his companion rose up to his knees, so that he was positioned between the blond man’s legs, face to groin. Coquettishly, he looked up from underneath his long lashes, a pearlescent sheen coating his wet skin and hair, and mutely asked for permission.

“Yes,” the doctor repeated, but this time it was little more than a sigh.

Sherlock had latched on to John’s proclivities and, since they coincided with his own, he played the role with overwhelming enthusiasm.

“Pull my hair,” he murmured, while he grasped the man’s swollen erection and teased the sopped glans with kittenish licks. The doctor couldn’t help the violent tremor that shook him and forced more of his length into his friend’s hot mouth.

Sherlock moaned and sucked avidly, his eyelids fluttering like drunken butterflies.

“My love,” John croaked, tugging at the dripping curls, and groaning loudly when the young man swallowed the entire shaft into his mouth till it choked him.

He tried to pull out, but two strong hands dug into his buttocks and kept him there; Sherlock’s saliva trickled down to John's testicles and thighs, and he felt his climax spread from his very bowels, so powerful he really feared for the boy’s safety.

There was nothing he could do, as the detective hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, his throat contracted and his smarting eyes filled with tears: the mere sight would have been enough, but the blissful sensations it elicited caused the eruption of his orgasm, which shot in copious pulses into Sherlock’s famished mouth.

“Say it again,” asked the young man, raggedly, once they were both on their knees.

“You belong to me,” said John, kissing every inch of the detective’s face.

“Yes,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, letting the perfection of that moment chase away the horrors of the previous night.

 

While he was rubbing Sherlock down with a heavy cotton sheet, insisting particularly on his hair, John was trying to find the words to ask his friend to sleep with him without appearing too demanding. Again, he had overlooked the young man’s ability to predict what was about to be said.

“Your room, I think,” the detective muttered, “Mine is a battlefield.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m but a fitful sleeper, you know.”

The doctor kissed the scented curls at the boy’s nape and “I have nightmares, at times,” he said.

“I’m unsure I will be able to rest,” Sherlock continued, “But I shall lie down with you.”

“It’s all that matters, my love.”

 

He would have preferred to forsake his nightclothes, but he decided that it would not be conducive to peaceful slumber; not with the detective pressed against him, the swell of his bottom barely concealed by the silken shift he was wearing.

Despite his earlier protestations, Sherlock had fallen asleep the moment John had enveloped him in his arms. “Ah,” he’d sighed and, closing his eyes, he’d been lost to the world.

His lover followed him soon after, as there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

 

There was no doubt that he was hearing music: a beguiling melody was permeating the air, and the dust motes caught within a shaft of pale light seemed to be dancing to its notes.

“I’m dreaming,” was the first thought and the second, less pleasant, was that he was dead and that music was a celestial hymn. There were no accompanying words though, thus discounting the possibility of a chorus of angels.

Slowly, he came back to reality and, better than a dream, was the vision of Sherlock playing the violin in a state of quasi-disrobement.

The same light that made the dust swirl was etching the detective’s slender contours in the form of an entrancing bas-relief. The expression on the performer’s face was rapt; like a bold seer in a trance, John thought, and perhaps Sherlock was right: there was a bit of the poet in him, especially when the contemplation of his lover was concerned.

With a flourish, the young man came to the end of the piece, and put the instrument back in its case, which he’d placed on the writing desk by the window.

“Paganini,” he explained, “I painfully lack practice. I made a few obvious errors.”

“It was beautiful,” John commented; he wanted very much to know why his companion had decided to re-acquaint himself with a relinquished passion, but he was loath to ask.

“You were restless,” the young man said, approaching John’s side of the bed, “I thought music might help.”

He sat down and – perched on the edge of the mattress – he seemed like an exotic bird ready to soar to the high heavens.

The doctor pulled him into an embrace, kissing the side of his neck where a violet bruise had bloomed, as testament to their love-making.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breathing on the injured skin, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Sherlock shook his head and pressed his cool lips against John’s.

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever received,” he murmured, moving closer with his chest so that it brushed against his lover’s. “I will ask for more of this and I hope you won’t refuse me.”

“I never could,” the older man replied, and uncovering a creamy shoulder, he tongued at the freckled collarbone, feeling Sherlock’s moans as they vibrated inside his slender throat. He was suckling at the pulse underneath the boy’s ear when he heard the unmistakeable tones of Mrs. Hudson. She was talking to someone, her voice loud enough to be overheard from the bedrooms. John knew her well enough by now to understand that the act was deliberate.

“Bother!” the detective exclaimed, embarking on a glorious sulk that made his friend guffaw.

“There is work to be done my dear, and I should not be able to retain a single scrap of information if you stay unclothed.”

That seemed to pacify the young man, who walked to the door wiggling his hips, making John laugh even harder.

 

Their landlady had convinced Billy to wait in the drawing room, by the fireplace, and there the two men found him, sitting on the carpet and darting anxious looks over his shoulder as if ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

“I offered him luncheon, but he would have none of it. Tea is all I could convince him to swallow,” the elderly woman sighed and left, shaking her bird-like head.

The boy stood up and started explaining the reason of his presence.

“They think they found the shawl; a tailor, name of West, who works for Fagan at Field Lane, told them he was sold a bundle of good quality clothes by a drunken beggar. He didn’t say anything more, but he’s still in possession of the item,” explained Sherlock.

“We won’t go anywhere until we’ve had tea and a bite to eat. I can smell bacon from here,” John replied, inhaling the aroma with a rapt smile.

“You and your obsession with victuals,” grumbled the detective, but followed him to the dining room all the same.

 

The steep, narrow and undrained Field Lane was becoming a familiar sight to the two men who were following Wiggins past the Jacobean and Stuart’s tenements in search of the early-Georgian building that housed Fagan’s second-hand shop.

Inside, the already confined space was packed to the rafters with merchandise, most of which was partially soiled or in need of some repair.

“’Tis why I’m here,” a stooping elderly man said.

He had sparse greasy hair and a sallow complexion; his eyes were of that pale ice blue shade that always suggests blindness, but his hands were smooth, with long, sensitive fingers and talon-like nails.

“Mr West, I believe,” said Sherlock, extracting a gloved hand from the fold of his cloak. It was a different one, John noticed, night-blue with red-stitching and an even higher collar than the old one.

The tailor let out a gurgling sound like a half-swallowed giggle, and greeted both man with a lugubrious cheerfulness. It reminded the detective of the women who had sat and knitted near the guillotine during public executions.

“We have been told you have something we have been searching for,” John said, staring into those alarming eyes.

“Can’t say I recall him who brought it here,” West said.

“A man then,” said the detective.

“Yes, you could call him that. Gone he was, more than a fair bit. I could have taken the bundle off him and not given him a farthing, but not worth the risk, if you get me drift. Half of them beggars have a gang what helps ‘em. Wouldn’t want my throat cut for a guinea’s worth of silk.”

“What did he bring you?”

“Let me see,” the man said, scratching at his stubbly chin, “Most were regular muslin gowns, but there were a white petticoat, all shiny and soft; That I sold for a pretty penny to a lady,” he winked at John, “when I say lady…”

“And what else?” asked the detective, curtly.

“The shawl you gentlemen are interested in,” he replied, and with a wave of his hand, he indicated a flimsy length of fabric displayed on a table crammed with other similar items.

“It is the same!” exclaimed John, remembering the portrait of Miss Clairmont.

The detective nodded and, unwilling to share more of his information with the shrewd man, he folded the shawl and stored it inside a velvet pouch he’d brought with him.

“Can’t take it away with you like that!” West remonstrated. “That’s theft that’s what it is.”

“This is a police matter, dear fellow,” said John, standing between his friend and the tailor, who immediately moved sideways, like an arthritic crab.

“Tis always us poor folks who stand to lose from Charlies,” mumbled West, and to shut him up the doctor handed him a half-sovereign. The man thanked him profusely, as he followed them to the shop door.

“You shouldn’t have paid him,” complained the detective.

“I felt sorry for the poor wretch.”

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to issue one of his tirades when, on the pavement, he saw a boy playing with a stuffed puppet and the words died in his throat.

“We should tell Lady Vere,” John said, even though he wondered what they could say, since the rumour of the bundle in the Nova Scotia Gardens’ well and the whiff of Night Jasmine at the theatre did not a coherent story make.

“I have other plans,” replied Sherlock, making sure the shawl was well tucked into the inner pocket of his cloak.

“This suits you even better than the other,” said his friend, with an appreciative gaze.

“Appearances are irrelevant,” the young man stated, all the while preening at the compliment.

“Yes, I can see,” John observed, an amused twinkle in his eyes, “And where are we going?”

“To Shoreditch,” replied the detective, “But we’ll stop at the Police Station first.”

 

On their way to Covent Garden, the doctor asked something that he’d forgotten about while they had been talking to Lestrade.

“Why didn’t you say anything about Cooper?”

“We have no proof, except for a handful of lewd books and crusted blood on a whip. Like you said, Sir Astley is too important for the police to upset him on such unsubstantiated claims. I think we should lay a trap for him.”

“What sort of trap?”

“The sort he prefers: a young, good-looking boy with a penchant for intoxicating substances.”

Horrified, John stared in Sherlock’s eyes and grasped his hand tight enough to bruise.

“You are not thinking,” he started, but the young man hastened to reassure him.

“I may be only a boy to you, my love, but I would not fool Sir Astley,” the detective laughed, “No, I am not the right age nor am I the class he favours. He likes them little more than children and with no family to reclaim them.”

“Fiend,” hissed John, “But you wouldn’t imperil another boy?”

“Silver Robbie wants to do it and we can’t stop him,” said the detective, “Anyway, we will be watching him closely.”

“I still think we should inform Lestrade.”

“Then we will do, my dear; but any unwanted interference may just scupper our strategy.”

“ _Our_ strategy?” said John, arching his eyebrows.

“You know I couldn’t do it without you,” quipped the detective, “or your pistol,” he winked, and let his hand trail down to cup the bulge in the doctor’s pocket.

John burst into laughter and Sherlock thought it was the loveliest of melodies.

 


	18. Calantha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sir Astley Cooper

_“His eyes glared upon her with fierce malignity; his livid cheeks became pale; and over his forehead, an air of deep distress struggled with the violence of passion, till all again was calm, cold, and solemn as before.”_

_Glenarvon (excerpt) – Caroline Lamb_

* * *

 

John had stayed back to retrieve the hip flask he’d left in the cab and when he entered the Station, he nearly collided with Sherlock who was striding out of it in great haste.

“What happened?” he asked, suspecting the worst.

“Mycroft’s here,” the young man grimaced.

“Here,” the doctor smiled, handing him the liquor.

The detective took a swig from it and swallowed it down with a theatrical gesture.

“The two of them together,” he said, “It is against the laws of common decency.”

“Come on, dear,” said John, taking his reluctant companion by the arm, “Pretend it’s just another hurdle you have to overcome.”

“Why do you say _pretend_?” Sherlock muttered.

In Lestrade’s office, Mycroft was sipping a cup of tea, while the Inspector was giving orders to Craddock, whose bland face never betrayed any emotion except for dog-like obedience.

“Before you stormed out like a fractious infant,” said the elder Holmes, sniffing in his sibling’s direction and twitching his nose, “And found comfort in unseemly substances, I was going to inform you about a certain matter; by the way, Doctor Watson how’s your journal coming on?”

“Oh, well, I haven’t had much time to… wait, how do you know about my journal?” asked John, puzzled.

“He likes to poke his nose where it’s not wanted,” snapped Sherlock.

“I merely notice things, such as papers left unsupervised on writing desks,” Mycroft replied, balancing the cup on a bony knee.

Lestrade followed his officer out of the office and the conversation took a more serious turn.

“Baring Brothers,” said the elder Holmes, “That is a veritable quandary. Initially, the bank didn’t want to collaborate, but when Lord Melbourne gracefully agreed to help, well, let’s say their attitude underwent a major volte-face.”

“Do get on, brother dear.”

“There isn’t much to say, I’m afraid. The deposit consisted of a purse filled with gold coins brought in by a man in plain attire, whose countenance was unremarkable to the point of anonymity. When I asked them to confirm it was indeed a gentleman and not, say, a lady dressed to impersonate a member of the other sex, the poor fellow could neither confirm nor deny it. The instruction was given by letter, but that communication has been misplaced or destroyed; in any case, they were unable to locate it.”

“Why did you question the identity of the mysterious benefactor?” asked John.

“We are talking of theatre people, after all,” replied Mycroft. “This Conquest fellow may have enemies he didn’t tell you about and this may be a scheme to avenge some past wrongs; in these instances, a _woman_ is often in the picture. You only have to think of Lady Macbeth,” he concluded, shivering in distaste.

“I didn’t know you concerned yourself with the inferior arts,” quipped his brother.

“Concern is perhaps an inaccurate definition, brother mine; but I do like to  _know_ all manner of things.”

“We are back to the beginning then,” observed Sherlock, almost pleased at his sibling’s failure.

“In a way,” conceded Mycroft, “But we do know that Lord Ruthven is a fabrication, the invention of a failed writer. Hence, the solution of the mystery could be linked to the play and the company staging it, rather than the identity of the unknown benefactor.”

“Yes,” the detective admitted, ruefully. “I reached the same conclusion, but I was hoping your influence might save us some precious time. Alas, it wasn’t to be. Well, I imagine you have a myriad things to do and aristocrats to pander to.”

His brother clicked his tongue and, with slow, deliberate movements, set the cup on the desk, smoothed down his trousers and, touching a hand to the brim of his hat, exited the scene.

“He was trying to help,” suggested John to his disgruntled friend.

“That’s what makes it inordinately worse.”

“Can’t you two behave like grown men?” said Lestrade, who’d evidently spoken to Mycroft before he left.

John caught Sherlock’s outraged expression and intervened.

“Let’s not ask for the moon my dear fellow, and stick with the humble stars instead: any news on our case?”

“As I predicted, we had no luck at Brookes’ Vivarium: his family had not seen Rowland since the day before yesterday. His poor father was in tears, and his uncle was in his cups,” the Inspector said, making an eloquent gesture.

“We checked the well at Nova Scotia Gardens, to no avail.”

“I should drag all waterways, if I were you,” said Sherlock, “the Fleet and the Camden Canal would be good places to start.”

“You think he’s dead?” asked John, surprised.

“He’s gone too far and knows far too much,” replied the detective.

“What have you been up to?” enquired Lestrade, causing momentary consternation in both men.

“I have a plan that concerns Sir Astley Cooper,” the young man blurted out, vainly trying to conceal the flush on his face.

“What, why?” exclaimed the policeman, “Don’t tell me he’s involved in this loathsome affair.”

“I shall not tell you then. But if you do want to know, yes, we do believe he is. I won’t bother you with the unsavoury details; just know that we are laying a trap and that another young boy will be putting his own life at risk. We have no tangible proof, except for a cottage filled with scandalous literature and a blood-encrusted whip.”

“A whip?” repeated Lestrade, his wide brown eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Yes, I saw it myself,” confirmed John.

“Well if that’s not a nasty pickle,” said the Inspector, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I suppose I could go there and ask him a few indirect questions.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Sherlock, “Not until we have set our plan in motion. In the meantime, keep searching for that scoundrel; we shall do the same.”

“Of course!” Lestrade replied, “The coroner confirmed the cause of death and the extent of the… abuse.”

There was a brief doleful silence then Sherlock nodded curtly and, after shaking Lestrade’s hand, he walked out.

“We will make sure the boy is given a decent burial,” John said gravely, and followed his friend.

 

“Care to tell me where we are going?” the doctor asked of his frowning companion, “And please, don’t roll your eyes and tell me _Shoreditch_ , because that is not what I asked and you know it.”

“Curtain Road,” said the young man with a pleased smile, “I want to check if that lock has been repaired.”

“And when did you take care of that?”

“You underestimate me, my darling. I can juggle more than the one or two paltry balls,” he preened, “And please do not accuse me of being saucy, because that is not what I meant and you know it.”

The doctor chuckled and the air between them immediately cleared.

“I think we should waste a little of our time on this Vampyre play. We may have overlooked something of importance.”

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to install one or more of your boys in the dungeon to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings?”

“The idea crossed my mind, my dear, but I’m convinced that it would be to no avail, and perchance even counter-productive. That French book was left to be found, like I mentioned. Their work, whatever its purpose, is done.”

“Seems nonsensical to me,” muttered the doctor, “Unless they want us to believe in revenants and all that rot.”

“Not _believe_ perhaps, but rather muddy the waters.”

“They don’t really need to,” said John, wrinkling his nose as they approached the unsanitary pool of filth outside St. Leonard’s.

 

“Calantha, my beloved,” the fair-haired boy cried, “Open your eyes, my dear, I beseech you,” he pleaded, in a tear-soaked voice.

“Oh sweet Christ,” murmured John, as he and Sherlock emerged from backstage.

Like the previous time, but with an absence of drama, they had entered by the trap door and they had uneventfully opened the door that led to the theatre.

What prompted the doctor’s blasphemy was the gruesome sight before them: on the floor, laid out on a velvet-covered bench, was a woman entirely covered in blood; even her hair was matted with it and her eyes and lips were barely discernible amid that clotted mask.

“Mr Holmes,” whispered Conquest’s voice, from somewhere behind them. “'Tis a very sensitive moment: Sam is giving his all and David too.”

“Who’s David?” asked John.

“The boy dripping in blood,” replied his friend, without hesitation.

“You wouldn’t ask a lady to play this part, not with all the neck-biting and the like,” said the theatre-manager.

“Does your patron know about this?” enquired the doctor.

Conquest snorted and shook his head.

“If he asked around about me, this could not have gone amiss: I never hire ladies. Men are easier to deal with, and besides I like to respect the Bard’s tradition.”

“It wasn’t Shakespeare’s choice, more like an imposition,” said Sherlock, piqued.

“A reasonable one, in my humble opinion,” the man said and, walking on stage where the rehearsal had come to a conclusion, he dissolved into a cacophony of praise.

Stirling advanced towards them, entirely clad in black, surely to accentuate his golden looks and to partially protect his costume from the contact with the paint.

“My dear gentlemen, I’m simply dripping with joy at seeing you again,” he enthused, staring at John’s brawny arms with appreciation.

“You were extremely convincing,” replied the latter, “My sincerest congratulations.”

The actor playing Calantha, a willowy boy named David Celliers, was working half-days at one of the furniture workshops nearby, so he went to his dressing room to remove wig and costume, after which he left without saying a word to the two guests.

“If you are having a dress rehearsal, I guess you will be opening soon,” said the detective, eliciting a surprised look from his companion.

“Oh, so you do know something about theatrical people, don’t you Mr Holmes?” chortled Conquest. “Well, Lord Ruthven was very generous and since my actors are proving to be more competent than I thought at first; well, why not begin and make some profits?”

“When?” asked the detective.

“I haven’t decided yet, but I was thinking a week from today.”

“And you are certain this is your idea; that it wasn’t suggested to you by another _secret_ letter from Lord Ruthven?”

“I did not receive any further communication from Lord Ruthven,” replied Conquest. “It is just as I told you. I discussed it with the cast and they all agreed.”

“Perchance one of them put forth the suggestion and you appropriated it.”

“I am the one who decides.”

 

While this interrogation went on, Stirling took John aside and murmured in his ear.

“I’m ever so thrilled about this part, I’m certain it will be a great success. Will you come and see us on opening night?”

The doctor tried to step away, but the young man had a firm grip on his arm.

“I hope Lord Ruthven will be in the audience,” he continued, “And that he will notice me and if I am lucky, I will be presented at court. I do so wish to go to a Royal Ball. Wouldn’t that be too marvellous?”

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in this Lord, dear fellow; he may well be only an invention.”

Stirling shrieked and pretended to swoon in John's arms.

John extricated himself from the actor’s greedy clutches and approached the other two men, with Stirling following him like a scorned puppy.

“You said you were afraid something would go wrong,” Sam said to Conquest, wanting to show John he was not entirely a fool.

“He did say it,” he insisted, almost pressing his lips to the doctor’s neck, just above his collar, “It’s not the infamous Scottish play, after all,” he said, a trifle scathingly.

Sherlock, who up to that moment had been distracted by the manager's stubbornness, was suddenly seized by the perfidious claws of jealousy.

“Was it you Mr Stirling who were trying to frighten Mr Conquest?” he asked, towering over the effeminate boy and looking daggers at him.

“I most certainly did not!” Sam exclaimed, taking a step back, “Why would I?”

“Well, you just said to me you are looking forward to meeting your patron,” said the doctor, feeling a bit like a snitch.

“Yes, of course I do want to show off my talents,” the boy said, colouring a little, “What sort of actor would I be otherwise?”

Sherlock refrained from replying, and asked the actor-manager whether Stirling’s allegation was true.

“It’s only stage fright,” the man replied, unconvincingly.

 “I want a copy of the script,” said the detective, while still glaring at the blond actor.

“Can’t see why,” mumbled Conquest, “But in the spirit of goodwill, here it is,” and he handed Sherlock a thick stack of papers bound together by red ribbons, “This is my spare copy, do not lose it!”

“I shall expect your invitation for opening night,” the young man concluded, and without waiting for Conquest’s reply, he flounced towards the exit.

 

“What was that all about?” asked John.

Since no reply was forthcoming, he opened his mouth to have another try, but his friend silenced him with one of his perplexing questions.

“Do you miss the feminine form?”

“If that is related to the absence of ladies in Conquest’s play…”

“Stirling is an epicene; more girl than boy,” replied Sherlock, staring out of the window, “If a gentleman was interested in both, he could have two for the price of one.”

“That would be accurate if the gentleman in question wasn’t interested in clever conversation or indeed in any form of erudite pastime.”

“ _Some_ gentlemen have a predilection for frail damsels in distress.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and slowly unbuttoned his glove to uncover his pale wrist.

“There all kinds of _distress_ , some more concealed and secretive than others,” he murmured, kissing over the delicate map of azurine veins.

“I don’t need saving,” said the detective, biting his lips as he tried to keep still.

“But maybe I do,” replied the doctor. “And with your uncanny intuition, you must have realised as much on the very night we met.”

“You never told me why you married a woman.”

John took the young man’s hand in both of his.

“It was before the new laws were passed, when being with another gentleman was still a crime. Mary was a friend and she wanted to get away from her awful family. I was in a similar predicament, so we decided to make a match of it. It wasn’t ideal, but we were quite content; until I decided to become a military surgeon, that is.”

“You wanted to be in the company of men.”

“Adventure was what I yearned for,” replied the doctor, “But I suppose you are right.”

“You were intimate with other soldiers.”

“Yes.”

“And you fell in love.”

“I was wrong, in more ways than one,” John said, and pulled Sherlock closer to kiss him on the cheek.

“What if you were wrong again?” murmured the detective.

“Impossible,” said the older man, stroking the raven curls that fell upon the young man’s brow.

The travelled in that honeyed silence until the carriage halted.

“It’s time we pay a visit to the venerable Sir Astley. Sunday afternoon is a suitable time for guests, as nothing of note usually happens on such a tedious day.”

“Aside from dozing in front of the fire and puffing on a pipe, I can’t say I disagree. But won’t we be showing our hand?”

“I’ll mention my meddlesome brother; Cooper will surely know of his role in government. As for you, even if he recognises you, he won’t admit to it.”

“He doesn’t care about lowly surgeons; I heard that he usually pretends they aren’t even there. You know that trick of staring vacantly as if the world had disappeared from sight,” John said, winking at his friend.

 

 “Mr Holmes, this is a rare and precious honour,” Sir Astley declared in his most ingratiating manner, “And how is your dear brother?”

Sherlock put on a fake smile and replied with the usual platitudes.

The drawing room they had been introduced into was luxuriously appointed with a profusion of velvets, brocades and delicate porcelains; above the elegant fireplace, looking down on the majestic salon, was a portrait of the master of the house: a few years younger, the man in the picture was be-wigged and powdered; the piercing black eyes seemed to follow the visitors around the room and his lips, fleshy and shiny, were curved into a smile that could only be defined as malignant.

The flesh-and-blood version was as unsettling, if a little worn by age.

A tall and well built man, whose brute strength was barely concealed by his sublimely tailored attire, he had the deportment and the countenance of a feral predator.

Upon witnessing the man’s attitude towards Sherlock, John was certain they were in the presence of a dubious individual.

“May I enquire to what I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he enquired, completely ignoring the doctor. He offered them Turkish cigarillos that were dutifully accepted and the three of them sat on an enormous divan; John had been forced to the far side of it, while Cooper sat close to the detective, gazing at him intently.

“We are interested in your opinion about the spate of grave robberies that have been infesting the city,” said John, loudly.

“Yes, I heard that Lord Melbourne is alarmed by a possible recurrence of a Burke and Hare scandal,” agreed Sherlock.

Sir Astley bit down on his cigarillo and turned his head towards the doctor, giving him a malevolent yet amused look.

“Please kindly assure dear Melbourne that nothing of the sort will ever happen in London. Robbing graves may be a crime, but it does not equate to murdering people.”

“I suppose it would depend on your definition of _people_ ,” insisted John.

“Well, I never thought I would be asked to philosophise on a Sunday afternoon,” Cooper quipped, but did not provide a real answer.

Sherlock was about to enquire whether vagabonds and beggars would classify as fellow citizens, when the door opened and a lady came in, carrying a tea tray.

“My dear Caroline, you shouldn’t overtire yourself,” Sir Astley said yet made no move to unburden his wife.

John stood up to help her and was thanked by way of a wan smile.

Lady Caroline Cooper reminded John of Kew Gardens in winter: her considerable beauty was desiccated and frozen, kept at bay, like a princess imprisoned inside an ivory tower.  Her large green eyes were lifeless and her red hair had lost their flame.

Her deportment was impeccable, but the very slope of her back under the fine pearl-grey dress suggested tension and exhaustion.

When she spoke, her voice was crystalline and oddly emotionless.

“I shall retire to my chamber forthwith,” she said, and it was obvious that her interference had not been welcome.

Her husband introduced the two guests and when she heard the name of Sherlock Holmes, her countenance became animated.

“I think I may have heard you name from an acquaintance of mine,” she said, “a Miss Rowena Light.”


	19. The Enervated Nymph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk to Sir Astley and Lady Vere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The United Kingdom was the first country in the world to implement laws protecting animals. In 1822 an Act to Prevent the Cruel and Improper Treatment of Cattle was passed by Parliament.  
> Note 2: Horncastle is listed in the 1086 Domesday Book and was long known for its great August horse fair.  
> Note 3: Tennyson was from Somersby in Lincolnshire  
> Note 4: "There are more things in heaven and earth, (Horatio) than are dreamt of in your philosophy" is a quote from Hamlet

_"Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!_   
_You melted to him as snow does to a fire;_  
_Your great visions strangled your words_   
_And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!"_

_Ophelia (excerpt) - Arthur Rimbaud_

 

* * *

 

“Pray forgive my wife’s lack of modesty,” Cooper said, his beetle-coloured eyes following the retreating figure of Lady Caroline with a disdain that underlined the sternness of his words.

“An enchanting lady,” replied John, with corresponding effrontery.

The silent confrontation between the two men was interrupted by Sherlock’s uncharacteristic chattering.

“I did detect an inflection in your lady’s tones,” he waffled, giving their host a shy smile. “Trying to discern accents is one of my little divertissements. What was it, Norfolk, perhaps?”

“Lincolnshire,” replied Sir Astley, slightly taken aback.

“One of my friends hails from there,” said the detective, and _heaven knows whether he’s lying,_ thought John. “From Gainsborough, to be precise,” he added, brightly.

“Caroline's family is from Horncastle.”

“The August horse fair,” exclaimed the doctor, while at the same time,

“The Domesday Book,” noted his companion, a dreamy expression on his face, like he’d never met with anything worthier of adoration than The Great Survey of 1086.

Cooper relented visibly at the mention of even that remote connection with William the Conqueror.

Behind his angelic demeanour, Sherlock’s mind was whirring like the well-crafted mechanism of a Swiss watch. He was thinking that Lady Caroline was very young and that Sir Astley’s progeny, of whose existence he’d been apprised by The Lancet, couldn’t have sprung from her green loins; he was wondering why this obviously perverted man had decided to marry again and why he'd been accepted by a woman who had been apparently broken by this union; and, naturally, he was wondering what connected the Misses Light, with their eccentric lifestyle, to this enervated nymph.

He concluded that asking the surgeon would not be in the wretched lady’s best interest, so he steered the conversation onto a different subject.

“I seem to recall that you have an interest in phrenology,” he said, sipping the strong tea and gazing up at the man through his eyelashes.

“Indeed,” Cooper acquiesced, inching closer to the detective. “It can’t be a mere coincidence that - upon the study of several subjects - many of the findings have been satisfactorily conclusive.”

“Do you seriously believe a bump on the head may signify a minor or major alteration in, say, acquisitiveness or secretiveness?” asked John, trying not to sound too derisive.

Sir Astley turned towards him and glared.

“In my humble opinion, yes, it’s undeniable. Many a criminal has been proven to have a comparatively large area of combativeness and a much smaller one of constructiveness, for instance.”

“Have you examined many criminals' skulls, my Lord?” asked the detective, licking his lips. John was starting to feel uneasy and perhaps a little galled at his friend’s fawning behaviour, even though he was aware that it was only an act.

“Well, my dear fellow,” the man replied, puffing out his chest, “I have, alas, been on this earth rather longer than you have and I have seen many wondrous and grisly sights. Murderers and vagabonds, thieves and mountebanks, all the dregs of humanity have met the blade of my scalp, at one time or another. And, at the risk of sounding immodest, I predict there will be many more in the future.”

“How perfectly splendid,” the detective enthused, and all that was missing from his performance was a furious clapping of hands, his companion mused, glumly.

“I was thinking of conducting an experiment,” Sherlock continued, lowering his gaze, “on the link between vagrancy and the shape of the cranium. I was wondering if you could, perchance…”

“But of course, my dear, of course!” Sir Astley, exclaimed, patting the young man’s hand with fervour. “I have exhaustive documentation on the subject and I would be more than happy to be of assistance.”

“It’s exceedingly benevolent of you,” said Sherlock, adding, after having cleared his throat, “Would any of these cases be recent? Science marches on at great speed.”

“Dear boy,” said the man, now holding the detective’s hand in his own, “I would not have built a reputation upon the sands of yesterday’s discoveries! My work is always renewing and enlarging its scope. I have to admit to a modicum of failure, since we are none of us infallible, aren’t we?” he asked of John, implying that his was a failed life.

“Failure can be worthier than success,” countered the doctor, “When there are lessons to be learned.”

Sir Astley snorted and adjusted his neck-cloth.

“I think you will agree that, while some struggle within the moral boundaries of the era, others, the cultivated and the erudite, are meant to soar above such strictures and to define their own trajectory.”

“Are you saying that the elected few should be above the law?”

“Come, come,” intervened Sherlock, “Our gentle host was merely stating the superiority of some individuals over others; this is hardly a matter for discussion.”

“Precisely,” purred Cooper. “Some lead, some are led and others,” here he turned to stare at John, “Others are leeching off greatness. I’ve witnessed it many a time within the animal kingdom too.”

“Are you then in favour of extending the anti-cruelty Act to protect all animals?” asked the blond man.

“On the contrary; that would be most inconvenient, considering the impellent demands of science and progress.”

Mindful of the increasing animosity between the two men, Sherlock proposed they took their leave, but received an invitation to the surgeon’s private rooms, where they would be able to discuss the young man’s interests in closer detail and absolute privacy.

 

“ _Neither the right age nor class_ , you said” John quipped. “He would have had you in his lap, had I not been there.”

The detective shed his coquettish mask and pulled his companion towards the relative seclusion of their hansom cab.

“You shouldn’t have shown your hostility,” he said, once inside. “A little of it goes a long way.”

“I did not like the way he addressed you or his wife, the way he talked about human beings and animals; in fact, I did not like him at all. I suspected as much, from what I’d heard about him even before I met you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” said Sherlock. “He won’t try anything beyond a mild flirtation; he would hardly risk his reputation for the sake of a tryst with the brother of Lord Melbourne’s right-hand man.”

“He’s a right scoundrel, so I wouldn’t put it past him, my darling. But I understand what you were trying to do and we shall see whether it’s worked.”

The detective tilted his hat at a rakish angle and winked at his lover.

“Oh, I’m quite certain of it. That’s his modus operandi: find beggar boys that suit his perverted tastes, have his way with them, murder them or have someone doing it in his stead then open them up and study his viscera and cranium.”

“Please reassure me that I did not detect a modicum of approbation in what you just described.”

Sherlock’s face darkened and his eyes shone greener than emeralds.

“How could you think that, after what happened to that poor boy? Have you forgotten that I held his lifeless body in my arms?”

“I’m sorry, my love,” said John, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I ardently wish to apprehend the fiends who are at the heart of this matter, but I certainly do not approve of their actions.”

“You admire cunning and boldness.”

“I prefer integrity and have a penchant the bravery of the soldier.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose and his blood followed suit.

“And I want very much to kiss you,” he rasped.

“Yes,” murmured the young man, parting his lips.

What started a soft embrace quickly turned into a furious wrangle which had both men flushed and breathless in a matter of minutes.

“I wish we could go straight to Baker Street, but I’m afraid we have one more visit to pay,” Sherlock croaked, as he adjusted his dishevelled attire.

His mouth felt swollen and so did other organs, but he tried to school his unwitting body to respect the bidding of his mind.

For his part, John was tingling with desire, but he didn’t mind the delay imposed on it, as he preferred to have a contented Sherlock in his bed rather than the more despondent version.

 

Mayfair seemed like the famed Xanadu after the bleakness of St. Mary Axe.

John felt once again a sort of kinship with Lady Vere, a warmth and amity that he couldn’t quite explain.

They found the writer at her desk, in the process of creating one of her story; she was wearing a plain silk empire dress and a shawl pinned together by an aquamarine brooch; yet for all her lack of sophistication, she radiated strength and self-assurance.

The doctor wondered what that odious Sir Astley would make of Helen Vere, in which category he would put her, considering she had a title and money, but refused to be treated as a courtier; that she was a woman but rejected some of the obligations of her sex; that she was clever but wouldn’t want to claim a superiority that precluded compassion.

“You are the bearers of bad tidings,” she said, her gaze darting from one man to the other.

Sherlock unravelled his velvet pouch and from it extracted the item he had found at Fagan’s.

“This is Emma’s!” exclaimed Lady Vere, “Where did you get it?”

“It’s rather complicated,” replied the detective. “First I would like to ask you a few questions. Would you kindly answer them without demanding further explanations?”

“Yes,” said the woman, simply.

They all sat down by the roaring fire and their client served them Trafalgar sherry.

“Have you or your sister ever been to the Shakespeare Theatre in Curtain Road?”

“Is that in the East End?” she asked and John nodded, “No, not to the best of my recollection.”

“Do you enjoy the theatre?”

The woman’s reply was unexpected, at least as far as John was concerned.

“We enacted stage plays, when we were younger. Once, I recall casting Emma as Ophelia and she was vehemently opposed to the entire thing.”

“Because the poor girl loses her mind and takes her own life?” asked the doctor.

“That too, probably,” said Helen Vere, “But what I remember best – and at the time I thought it quite funny – was her annoyance at the implied love story with Prince Hamlet. _They don’t speak or act like they love each other; there must be an entire act missing_ , she insisted. She was convinced I had ripped off the pages and hidden them away as a sort of joke.”

“Did she accept to play the role in the end?”

“Yes, she did, but she decided that she would pretend Ophelia was the one who had rejected Hamlet and that he was too proud to admit it.”

“That’s an interesting reading,” observed John, “I wonder if Shakespeare would have seconded it.”

“Did you frequent the theatre here in London?” asked Sherlock.

“We have been to see a few tragedies. The Duchess of Malfi at the Adelphi was the last one we saw; a gruesome tale, but so very gripping.”

“And did Miss Clairmont find it agreeable?”

“I can’t say she did. You see, she had already become restless and had started to frequent graveyards by then.”

“Did you see her there or was it something that she told you and that you never verified?”

“I never followed her if that’s what you are suggesting,” Lady Vere replied, her blue eyes flashing. She immediately regained her composure and apologised. “Pardon me, Mr Holmes, naturally you need to ask this sort of questions. No, I do not have proof that she did, but why would she tell me, and recount the peculiarities of some of the monuments and statues, if she had been lying? What would have been the purpose?”

“What about the secret society? Have you any proof of that aside from a piece of paper and your sister’s reaction to the words Life in Death?”

Lady Vere shook her head, morosely.

“I imagine that if I told you it was a collection of little signs and words, you would call me a fanciful lady.”

Sherlock smiled and poured her another measure of sherry.

“My intuition helps me as much as any tangible clue. Never discount your sixth sense, it’s frequently right. However, there are cases in which the effect produced is precisely engineered by shrewd calculations, like a trick played by a conjuror.”

“You think my sister was lying to me?” she said, more surprised than hurt.

“She might have been. I prefer to keep an open mind, when no first-hand testimony is on offer.”

“I can’t imagine she would have sustained a lie for so many years. Who could?”

“You’d be surprised what human beings are capable of, given sufficient motivations,” said John.

“You are from Lincolnshire. Do you know a Lady Caroline Cooper - only she wouldn’t have been called that back then – from Horncastle?”

Lady Vere’s eye opened wide.

“You were speaking about conjurors,” she exclaimed. “You must be one of them. Why, did you travel there?”

“No, but you mentioned that your friends were all from Lincolnshire and since I just encountered someone hailing from the very same region, I simply put two and two together,” replied the detective. “A shot in the dark; a good one though.”

“Do you mean Caro is here, in London?”

“Tell me about her.”

Lady Vere smiled fondly as she recalled her long-lost friend.

“She was Caroline Glenarvon then; her father was the local doctor; she was full of life and stories and ever so pretty to look at,” she recounted. “We were only little girls, but you could already see she was going to become a beautiful woman. When our father died, we were forced to leave our home and thus we became estranged.”

“Neither you nor your sister heard from her again?” the doctor asked, incredulous.

“Baron Clairmont didn’t believe in fraternising with the outside world,” Lady Vere replied, wryly. “Besides, Glenarvon was a gambler and he heartily disapproved of that; but you did not answer my question.”

“Yes, she is here, but I fear her husband is of a pair with your step-father.”

“Poor Caro! I used to think about her often and imagined she would have embarked on some splendid enterprise; that she would be travelling the world and conquering it, acre by acre.”

“I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be advisable for us to pay a visit to Lincolnshire,” said Sherlock, peering closely at her to ascertain her reaction, which was indifferent.

“Please do as you see fit, Mr Holmes; I doubt it will be of any help, considering that Clairmont manor is an abandoned ruin and we do not have any relatives left in that part of the world.”

“Was your sister very close to Lady Caroline?”

Lady Vere smiled, but she seemed uncomfortable.

“Yes, well, it was more of a hero worship, because Emma was younger and Caroline seemed so formidable to her. She may have been jealous of me, because of the very same reason. You know how at that young age everything seems infinitely more serious; the bonds of friendship are as deep as blood ones. What is Caro’s husband’s occupation?”

“Lady Caroline is married to a renowned surgeon, Sir Astley Cooper,” explained John.

“I have never heard of him, but then again, as I explained, we did try to frequent London society and were somewhat repelled by it.”

“You mentioned some distant relatives, cousins I believe,” said Sherlock.

“They have left for the continent. I believe they are in Naples, away from the frost and the fog; they are rather elderly. I should very much like to meet Caro again, but only if you think it advisable.”

“I would prefer you didn’t,” replied the detective. “Not quite yet. May I enquire about your friends here in London?”

“My publisher, Henry Colburn, and other writers and publishers, mostly,” she replied, “I’m afraid we are rather a dull lot. We entertain each other by reading our stories out loud, before inflicting them on a wider audience.”

She smiled at the doctor who regarded her with sympathy.

“I found your sister’s shawl in Field Lane. It was retrieved from a well in Nova Scotia Gardens and sold to a second-hand clothes shop.”

Lady Vere paled and her lips trembled.

“She is not… is she?”

“Not as far as we know,” replied Sherlock curtly, eliciting a stern glare from his companion. “You sister uses the fragrance Night Jasmine, am I correct?”

“Yes, she loves the smell of jasmine.”

“We found traces of that perfume inside the bowels of the Shakespeare Theatre in Curtain Road.”

Helen Vere stood up suddenly, nearly upsetting the crystal-topped table on which the drinks tray was set.

“Is she imprisoned there?”

“A certain Lord Ruthven may have something to do with it.”

A befuddled expression coloured the lady’s features.

“He’s a fictional character, an invention,” she said, a spark of annoyance threading through her words. “There’s no such man in Britain, or indeed in the entire world.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” quoted Sherlock, and John stared at him like he’d just sprouted a second head.

“You will tell me what this means, won’t you?” she asked, taking her place back on the divan.

“My dear Lady Vere,” replied the detective, “You will be the very first person to know.”

 

“Writers have a very vivid imagination,” he commented, as he unfastened the buckles of his cloak.

“Let me,” said John, who gloried in divesting his lover. “I really had wondered whether you knew someone in Gainsborough; brilliant of you to remember about Lady Vere’s comment about Lincolnshire.”

Sherlock’s countenance glowed with pleasure, but he tried to conceal it.

“As a matter of fact, I do know someone who comes from that region,” he declared, while the doctor was busy with the buttons of the young man’s jacket. “We spoke about him already: Alfred Tennyson, a poet like yourself, my darling.”

The blond man guffawed, but he too was delighted with the comparison.

“I most certainly cannot aspire to even kiss the hem of his robe.”

“Why, would you want to?”

John, who had removed his friend’s waistcoat and was now fiddling with the cravat, caressed the underside of the man’s jaw.

“I wish to kiss you all over, if you give me permission,” he said.

“Granted, although I have to say I expected you to grumble about supper.”

Throwing the cravat on the chair by his nightstand, the doctor parted the frilled shirt and licked at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.

“Yes, I am exceedingly famished,” he murmured, and pushed the young man on the bed.

“I surrender,” whispered the detective, raising his arms and splaying his legs.

The words and gestures were like a red rag to a bull: swiftly, John removed his friend’s boots, stockings, trousers and smallclothes, leaving him naked and well on his way to aching arousal.

With similar haste, he undressed himself and went to join his lover, pressing him down on the mattress with the full weight of his body.


	20. The Rookery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut happens from the get-go, so mind the tags.  
> The boys go out at night, again....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The nickname rookery originated because of the perceived similarities between a city slum and the nesting habits of the rook.   
> Note 2: The Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly (that no longer exists) hosted several Turner exhibitions and, later, the shows of the famous illusionist John Nevil Maskelyne.  
> Note 3: Smelt = a half-guinea Blower = snitch Dollymop = cheap prostitute Nobbler = those among the underworld who inflicted bodily harm.

_“The Rookery... was like a honeycomb, perforated by a number of courts and blind alleys, cul de sac, without any outlet other than the entrance. Here were the lowest lodging houses in London, inhabited by the various classes of thieves common to large cities… were banded together…”_

_The Rookeries of London (excerpt) -_ _Thomas Beame_

* * *

 

When John had said he wanted to kiss Sherlock all over, he had not lied: soft lips brushed his toes, ankles and up to his calves and inner thighs. Sometimes the tip of the man’s tongue darted out to lick along the swell of a muscle or tease a sensitive spot, such as the back of his knees or the trail of hairs that joined groin to navel.

“Please, oh please,” he begged when his lover ignored the parts of him that most clamoured for attention.

“Patience, my love,” the doctor whispered, nibbling at the young man’s breastbone.

When he nuzzled at the pit of Sherlock’s arms, the detective shrieked; John found it so endearing that he lingered there, and as he felt his friend relax into the touch, he lapped at the furry musk, laughing at the shocked yelps coming from the boy’s mouth.

“All over,” he repeated, and went on to take care of the young man’s outstretched arms and hands, kissing every finger and suckling their tips.

“My darling,” he finally breathed against the bitten-off lips, letting his tongue explore and conquer. The embrace was one of desperate intensity and at that point neither man could wait much longer: Sherlock’s erection was painfully curved against his belly and was drawing wet patterns on it with every breath he took; John’s had been brushing against hot, sweaty skin until it was engorged and dripping.

Seeing the young man wrap his fingers around the iron headboard evoked a vivid image of their coupling: John could almost feel what it would be like to be inside Sherlock and thrust deep, until they were wholly conjoined. This wasn’t the right moment, he mused, not so soon after having witnessed a horrific spectacle of violence.  Despite having been reassured of Sherlock’s willingness to be had in that manner, he just _knew_ it could not be that simple.

“I love you,” he murmured in the boy’s ear, licking at the shell of it and playing with a lock of hair that had tickled his nose. In reply, he received a long-drawn moan and a shudder, and saw that his lover – eyes closed shut and knuckles white - was already soaked in sensuality, coveting subjugation.

“Would you like me to tell you what to do?” he rasped, his hands hungrily smoothing down the detective’s abdomen and flanks.

Darkened pupils stared wildly at him and nostrils flared.

“Please.”

“Use one hand and leave the other where it is,” John commanded. “Take only the tip in your mouth. I want you to think of your pleasure above anything; understood?”

“Yes,” whispered the detective, unsure of what was about to happen.

Slowly and deliberately, the blond man turned around so that his face was level with Sherlock’s erection. The time for teasing had come and gone, so he went down on it like a man possessed: initially he held the shaft in his fist, but soon enough he was swallowing it deep into his throat.

“Ah,” he heard his lover shout, and then Sherlock started rolling his hips, letting his thighs fall apart, obscenely wide. It was an invitation John couldn’t refuse: while he continued gorging himself on the ripe cock, his hands sought the heavy fullness of the man’s testicles, the velvety tightness of his anus.

When he dipped his middle finger past the fluttering ring, he felt his lover’s heartbeat, pulsing strong and fast, like a throbbing star.

For a moment, he was like a ferocious beast feasting on a defenceless prey, but beneath him, Sherlock was reciprocating, sucking at John’s glans with messy, lewd kisses.

The noises were wanton: growls and moans were mixed with the slurping, lapping sounds of flesh mingling with flesh.

“Christ,” John gasped at one point, when he felt the tip of his lover’s tongue stab at his slit, while deft fingers stroked his length.

Sherlock had never felt more feral; all rational thought had fled his mind and the only desires he had were carnal, base: he wanted to be inundated with pleasure and fed on the juices of it; he yearned for rougher caresses and the pressure of fingers stroking him from the inside.

A violent tremor shook him and John’s finger touched a swollen bud that had him cry out  and, unbidden, the tide of his orgasm rose from his core and erupted with a series of seizures that left him weak and mewling like a kitten.

His friend’s climax was of a similar potency, spattering the detective’s face and neck with his copious milky release.

 

“You always know what I want,” Sherlock husked, doing his best to smile. His muscles were refusing to cooperate, and the fact that John was fondling his neck and playing with his nape curls did not help his cause.

“It is because we want the same things,” the doctor replied, kissing the pulse on his friend’s throat. “My good fortune never ceases to delight me. It is almost like being in possession of a magic lamp that grants my every wish.”

The detective chuckled.

“You too think I am a conjuror? Should I hire the Egyptian Hall and perform to a paying audience?”

In reply, John nipped on his friend’s rosy earlobe.

“Your tricks are for me only,” he whispered, “Nobody else.”

“Nobody else,” repeated the detective, with a contented sigh.

There was a long silence punctuated only by their combined breaths and the sweet murmurs of the afterglow.

“Turner,” said John, after a while.

“What about him?”

“I saw an exhibition of his watercolours at the Egyptian Hall; landscape views of England and Wales; there were quite a few of Lincolnshire too. Odd painter that Turner; I can’t quite figure out whether I like his paintings because of their quality or for the emotions they evoke.”

“Isn’t it perhaps the case that their quality resides in their ability to captivate your heart?”

John glanced at Sherlock with eyes filled with wonder.

“Whoever said you were made of ice is a blind fool,” he said, caressing the young man’s cheek with the back of his hand, “How could they not see how alive you are?”

“Maybe they were right,” replied the detective, leaning into the touch, “That was then and this is now.”

 

John woke up with a start: the night was dense and dark, and there was an insistent hand on his shoulder.

“Wake up,” urged Sherlock, “I just had an idea.”

“Cannot it wait until morning?” he muttered, burrowing deeper underneath the pile of heavy blankets.

“I believe we should see it at its best,” the young man replied.

When he finally contrived to open his eyes, John saw that his friend was already dressed, but that he was wearing old, ragged clothing and a soft cap rather than his usual elegant hat.

“We are not breaking into another abode, are we?” he asked, rising up onto his elbows. He rubbed at his tired eyes and stifled a yawn, reaching out blindly to pull his lover onto the bed. Sherlock lost his balance and fell in John’s lap.

“You look indecently young in this garb,” the doctor said, thumbing at his companion’s pouting lips, which immediately parted to allow the intrusion.

“Do we really have to go?” he asked, watching fixedly as his finger slid in and out of that enticing mouth.

“Mm,” nodded the young man, lowering his lids to half-mast and savouring the feel of John’s tongue on his skin, remembering the heavenly sensations it had afforded to his nether regions.

“This will keep,” the blond man said, his hand snaking down to cup the detective’s hardness. “It’s only that I dislike letting good things go to waste.”

He smiled wickedly and bestowed a smacking kiss on Sherlock’s bare throat.

“You are the very soul of thrift,” quipped the boy, arching his neck in invitation.

“I’m a very good samaritan,” concurred John, “but I do not want to lead you too far astray. Where are we going and why are we dressing like coachmen?”

“While you were rendered unconscious by that enormous dish of turbot and potatoes,” the detective started, pretending not to notice his companion’s amused eye-roll, “I sat up next to you thinking of places where the Police would not dare venture.”

“It must be quite a list,” the older man said; he had gotten out of bed and was swiftly going about his ablutions with water as cold as ice.

“Indeed; but finally I settled upon one particular area in which even the Forty Thieves wouldn’t set foot.”

“Well?”

“The Holy Land,” Sherlock replied, with a look of such effrontery on his urchin-like features that his lover was very tempted to forgo his restraint.

“Come on, my dear, illuminate me,” he replied, instead.

“St Giles’ Rookery, nicknamed the Rats’ Castle or the Holy Land,” the detective explained. “It comprises Seven Dials and spreads over to Oxford Street.”

“I heard about that,” John said, all the while selecting the pieces that were to form his attire for their excursion into these perilous slums.

“Lestrade did not even think about searching there, even though it is practically on Brookes’ doorstep.”

“Didn’t a man enter Portugal Street some time ago only to never come out again? I can hardly blame the Inspector for not daring to interfere with that dangerous mob, but I don’t see why the Forty Thieves would have the same qualms; I mean, I’m sorry for them and all, but they are not exactly sticklers for honesty.”

The detective rubbed the side of his nose and sniffled: if Sir Astley had seen him then, he would have most certainly taken him to his cottage and John would have been _forced_ to shoot the surgeon dead. He heaved a luscious sigh.

“You really are a talented actor,” he observed, and his friend glanced away and blushed; there was no way to know whether it was from pleasure or if it was part of his ruse.

“The Rookery is not a place for young boys, no matter how delinquent. It’s a foul congregation of brothels, gin taverns, opium dens and flash houses. I have heard horrific stories of children being forced to copulate with their siblings and spectators paying to watch.”

John grimaced as he put his oldest pair of trousers on. They belonged to his time in the army and the detective must have realised as much: he stared fixedly at the placket and buttons, licking his lips.

“Remember to take your pistol with you,” he murmured, blinking furiously.

“Don’t worry, I won’t ever forget,” the doctor replied, picking up the object in question and inspecting it closely.

“The Rookery is the perfect hiding place for a murdering villain such as Rowland Brookes.”

“Why not wait until daylight? Are they vampyres too?”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the pistol on John’s hands; he was as still as a statue, his breath coming rapid and shallow.

“Like all infernos, it comes alive at night,” he murmured, blushing to the root of his hair. He had a vision of what it would have been like to be John’s valet during his army days: tiding up his uniforms, cleaning up his weapons, helping him wash away the sweat, blood and gunpowder; he imagined being ordered about and punished when he did something wrong; no beatings or unkind words, but rough caresses and violent thrust, pushing viciously in and out of him, thrusting hard and fast, feverish and relentless, over and over, again and again…

“Sherlock?” his friend's voice pierced urgently through the haze of his daydream.

“Yes,” he said, loudly clearing his throat, “During the day they hide away in their labyrinthine underground hovels. But at night, much like rats and cockroaches they come out to swarm the taverns and bawdy houses. They feel safer and more daring. I wouldn’t put it past Brookes to be still recruiting boys on behalf of Sir Astley.”

“He must know we are after him and the Police too!”

“He’s desperate and most likely suffering from a kind of putrid fever. I bet he doesn’t have long to live and thus he won’t care what perversions he plunges into or what risks are attached to them.”

“I need a drink,” John declared, after pulling on his most threadbare jacket.

“Not tea again, I hope.”

“I was thinking more along these lines,” he replied, taking a bottle of gin from the back of a drawer.

“Bokma,” Sherlock marvelled, touching the crest on the label.

“For Dutch courage, quite literally,” replied John, smiling at his friend’s astonishment.

 

Outside, the fog was dissipating, making way for a forbiddingly cold, starlit sky.

“It’s beautiful,” the detective commented, breathing in the pure clean air.

“Yes,” agreed his companion, from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, “yet it is contaminated by all manners of sins, and not too far from this very spot. I will drive us there; no need to wake that poor boy up at this ungodly hour. Besides, I wouldn’t want him to risk his life there.”

The young man nodded and guided him towards the back of the building, where the horse was stabled.

 

They quickly reached Oxford Street and left the cab in a safe, sheltered spot; from there they started their Hogarthian progress into a purgatory of narrow alleys, streets and courts, dank and evil-smelling. At each turn, they expected to chance upon a gang of thieves or a huddle of vagabonds, but all they encountered were overflowing gutters, badly patched-up windows and every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage. Finally, they heard a booming sound and perceived a faint light coming from an old wooden gallery, whose gnarled columns were sopped and mouldy.

“A brothel, probably, or perchance a gambling den,” suggested Sherlock, and John didn’t have time to reply, as the door opened wide and an extraordinary creature stood on the threshold, like a multi-tiered mountain of shivering jelly.

A woman, they thought, although it was impossible to tell.

“You two gents coming in?” she said in a mellifluous tone; her voice was hoarse from shouting or perhaps smoking and with a whistle due to lack of teeth. The reddish skin of her face was marked with pox scars and her eyes would have looked more at home on a member of the porcine species.

“How much?” asked the detective in his best cockney accent.

“A smelt each,” she replied, smelling an easy gain.

“What’s on the menu?”

“A creature that you never seen the like of.”

“We are no bleeding novices,” said John, with a truculence that had his friend twitching in his crumpled pants.

“As long as you ain’t blowers,” she said, tucking a limp white flower in her mottled bosom.

“A smelt is enough for the two of us,” stated the doctor, with an air of finality.

She stared him in the eye and reached a satisfactory conclusion, letting them into her gaudy establishment.

“I have no dollymops in my house,” she said, proudly showing them into a dimly lit parlour in which a motley crew of scantily dressed, underfed creatures hovered in the vicinity of a dying fire.

“Where is that creature you were boasting about?” asked Sherlock, a little flicker of terror throbbing in his throat; the last thing he wanted was to witness a repeat of what had happened to Tom.

“Show’s in the salon,” she replied, using the grand word with a certain pride.

They were guided through a corridor doused in the stench of piss and emerged into a nightmarish world of toothless grins and drunken cheers. While an emaciated boy banged loudly on a regimental drum, songs were being performed by boys and girls in highly suggestive costumes that left little to the imagination.

The two men exchanged a loaded glance and, under cover of partaking in the fun, started inspecting the room, looking for Brookes.

Gaslight was likely unaffordable for the madam of the house, so a number of fat candles were bleeding wax all over blackened tables and rickety stools. The sea of faces undulated in that flatulent chaos and, in niches and flea-infested corners some were copulating: men grunting and sweating on top of willing or unwilling partners; they soon realised that even though they had paid to watch, they would be more than welcome to join in.

Suddenly, the din stopped and all the attention turned towards the little platform on which, like a beast at an auction, a young creature was being paraded for all to see.

“What do you think it is: boy or girl?” the jelly mountain asked of the crowd.

Dressed in a floor-length gauze chemise, with curly brown locks framing a pale oval face, the creature had terrified eyes and a trembling heart-shaped mouth.

Lewd words were hurled about and famished hands reached out to touch the immaculate garment, wanting to rend it to pieces.

“Stand back, you damn nobblers! You know the rules!”

In the midst of that pandemonium, Sherlock took John’s hand and squeezed it hard.

The doctor turned to see the panic in his friend’s eyes and took immediate action. He approached the side of the make-shift stage and motioned for the woman to approach. He whispered a few words in her ear and pressed three gold coins in her plump hand; she bit down on them and rewarded him with a crooked, baleful smile.

“Seems you won’t be getting your show after all,” she shouted and before the crowd could round on her, she pushed the three of them out of a side exit, bolting the door behind them.

“What is your name,” asked John softly, as soon as they were far enough from that awful brothel.

“Freak,” the little creature replied, trembling violently.

“That can’t be right,” he said, removing his over-coat and draping it around the heaving frame.

“John,” murmured Sherlock, taking him aside. “Girl or boy, she said. And she knew they would never guess; why do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” hissed his friend.

“Because it’s a hermaphrodite, that’s why.”

The doctor blanched and stifled an exclamation of dismay.

“Oh Christ, we have to get the poor thing away from here, before Brookes gets wind of this. He would want… you know what he’d want!”


	21. Regions of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slums & smut (mind the tags)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Diane d'Andoins or d'Andouins (Diane of Andoins) was called "the beautiful Corisande" and she was known for having been a royal mistress of King Henri III of Navarre (the future Henri IV of France) between 1582 and 1591.  
> Note 2: Wren is the first person recorded to have employed intravenous injecting in Britain. In 1656 he experimented by injecting dogs with opium and other substances (Macht 1916). Wren’s ‘syringe’ was a crude device, consisting of a quill attached to a small bladder. In order to gain access to a vein, an incision first had to be made in the skin.

_“At once, as far as Angels ken, he views_  
_The dismal situation waste and wild._  
 _A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,_  
 _As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames_  
 _No light; but rather darkness visible_  
 _Served only to discover sights of woe,_  
 _Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace_  
 _And rest can never dwell, hope never come”_

 _Paradise_ _Lost (excerpt) – John Milton_

 

* * *

 

“I have heard that name before,” the wretched creature said, teeth still chattering.

“What?” both men asked, simultaneously.

“Brookes. Madam was talking to one of the boys, saying that Brookes would come and take him away if he didn’t behave.”

“Did she say anything else?” Sherlock enquired, kneeling down to appear less threatening.

“No, but Robin, that was the boy’s name, had a fit and she had to slap him.”

“What should we call you? Is there a name you prefer above all others?” enquired John.

“I saw a show once, from the back of the stage... I was one of them numbers, you see? It was about the mistress of a French king. She wore a dress with golden threads and a shimmery ruff around her neck; she was ever so pretty. The King called her Corisande.”

That solved two conundrums in one fell swoop, thought the doctor.

“Very well, Corisande,” said Sherlock, holding the little girl’s icy hands. “Do you think you could help us find this Brookes man? What does your Madam do other than managing that House? Does she go out to pay visits? What other places did she mention?”

Swaddled inside John’s coat, Corisande looked like a princess that had been shrunk by an evil witch into diminutive proportions.

She mused for a moment, her round hazel eyes enormous and framed by dark lashes.

“She spoke of the ‘den’ with some clients. They were violent-like, you know? And she said if they came straight from the den. What’s a den?”

“A bad place where men lose their virtue and their sanity,” murmured the detective, sounding forlorn.

“What should we do? We can hardly take her with us,” John whispered in his ear.

“I want to be of service,” intervened the girl. “You’ve taken me away from her and I wish to repay you.”

The doctor felt a twinge of horror at the implications of her statement.

“You don’t owe us anything,” he replied, “Never forget this: we do not want anything in return. This place, this den you told us about, will be full of dangerous people.”

“What, like bludgers and skinners?” she asked, fear overtaking her again. “You ain’t skinners, aye?”

Sherlock paled and John hastened to reassure the trembling girl.

“Unusual sort of skinners we would be, when we lent you garments instead of stealing yours,” he quipped, straightening the coat that sat askew on Corisande’s sloping shoulders.

She offered him a little smile and he continued:

“We don’t want you to see what goes on inside a den, but if you have any idea where such a place might be, Sherlock will stay outside with you while I go in.”

“I’m not leaving you,” started the detective, but was overruled.

“I won’t have you mixing with that crowd,” he declared, using a commanding tone.

The young man tried to object, but there was no real strength in his protestations. That was a weakness he’d have to overcome, he reflected with annoyance, while at the same time relishing the ferment in his bowels and the blood coursing rapidly through his veins.

“So - my little Corisande - which way should we go?” John enquired.

“There is a place nicknamed the Little Smoke,” she whispered, and tentatively moved a few steps towards a cul-de-sac at the end of which stood a tall rusted gate. They looked for a passage, but could find none and the pointy spikes that rose like guards on top of the railings made it impossible to climb over it and jump to the other side.

“There is a trick,” the angelic creature said, and her deft, delicate fingers reached in between two poles and prodded until they found what they were looking for: a concealed spring mechanism that revealed a door cut into the gate.

“That’s to confuse the Blowers,” she explained. “And keep away the Charlies.”

On the other side, the squalor of the Rookery was less accentuated: even though they walked past stinking pools of excrements and piles of detritus, the houses were illuminated and the glass panes all in one piece. The eerie quiet was slashed here and there by raucous laughter or piercing shrieks all the more disturbing for their anonymity.

“This way,” said the girl, taking various turns into back alleys and dilapidated streets until they reached a tavern named the _Angel_.

“You may ask here,” Corisande said, “I have heard it mentioned before.”

“Did you live here?” asked Sherlock, capturing the little girl’s gaze.

He eyes filled with tears and she nodded.

“Madam bought me off a publican” she confessed, glancing away, her jaw working as she tried to stifle her emotions.

“Stay here,” said John and went inside; around their side of town, inns and taverns would be shut at that hour, but the Rookery was a world within a world, he concluded.

The _Angel_ was the list appropriate name for that hovel: patronised by delinquents, it was dirty and decadent, with its benches upholstered in dirty red velvet and the wooden floor boards drenched in ale, sick and other foul fluids.

The doctor was approaching the bar counter when he heard a muffled noise coming from behind him; he turned and beheld a fat, bearded man: he was half-asleep and heavy with drink; he winked at John, covering his laughing mouth with his be-ringed hand.

“She got another one, that little devil!” he said, cackling like a mad devil.

John dashed out in time to catch the villain in the act.

“One step closer and I will slash his throat,” the criminal said. Next to him, Corisande was still like a marble figurine, her eyes famished and her hands scratching at her pallid throat. He took one look at Sherlock’s face and understood everything; once they were out of there, he’d throttle him with his own hands. Of course he would have noticed the signs of opium addiction in Corisande’s countenance and had allowed her to walk them both into a trap. His implicit trust in John was admirable, but the rashness and secretiveness of this decision was abysmally stupid.

“Let him go and I will spare you life,” he said, quickly assessing the situation. The aggressor was a short burly man with thick dark hair and bushy mutton-chops sideburns. He was holding the detective from behind, a shining butcher blade pressed across the young man’s throat.

“Your purse and your watch,” he said, grinding his yellowed teeth, “Why are you sniffing around here, I’d like to know.” 

“They are looking for someone named Brookes,” replied Corisande; the poor girl was casting imploring glances at John, who didn’t even want to ponder on her troubles, not when his lover’s neck was under the knife.

“Oh you are, aren’t you?”

“Like I said, let him go and I won’t dispatch you to your maker,” repeated the doctor, tersely.

“What do you two gents want with Brookes?”

John had a sudden stroke of genius.

“He used to work for us, but he’s disappeared.”

“You Runners?” the man asked, his small eyes flashing from one man to the other.

The doctor nodded.

“Damn blowers!” he cursed.

He stamped his foot and it was enough of a distraction for John to pull his pistol out and point it at the man’s head.

“I shall count to three,” he hissed.

“All right, all right!” the criminal cried out, letting the knife rattle down onto the grimy pavement. John kicked it away and pushed the man against the blackened wall of the tavern.

“Where is Brookes?” he asked, pistol still pointed at the cowering scoundrel.

“Haven’t seen him for days,” he mumbled, “But if he’s anywhere, he’ll be chasing the dragon.”

“Consuming drugs,” explained the detective, in a strained voice.

He was holding Corisande by the hand, and she was gazing up at him, tears streaming down her face.

“If you show us where this deuced hovel is, I might just forget of your existence. And no foolish tricks or I will shoot you like a dog. What is your name?”

“Smith,” the man replied, and the obvious lie made John smile. He felt alive and dangerous, like he’d not experience for a while before he met Sherlock; he’d have to give the stubborn ass a stern reprimand, which he suspected would hardly count as punishment to either of them.

“Lead the way,” he ordered, pressing the barrel of the pistol between Smith’s shoulder blades.

“Don’t shoot me.”

“Don’t make me.”

Their odd procession encountered no spectators except for a handful of drunks and prostitutes, who did not pay them any mind.

The notorious den turned out to be a large warehouse with boarded windows; inside, in the middle of the first room, was an enormous furnace from which the flames of a Miltonian hell seemed to be spreading shadows rather than lighting their way.

“Why the bonfire?” asked John and his friend, who had been following a step behind, carrying a sleepy Corisande in his arms, murmured: “For the chills.”

In that moment, Smith shuddered violently and let out a pitiful cry.

“He’s in dire need of his drug,” Sherlock explained.

“You can purchase laudanum at every street corner; why the secrecy?”

Smith shook his head and laughed hysterically.

“That’s as good as water that’s laudanum,” he gasped, his breath catching in his throat. “This is better stuff, makes you forget; makes you all-powerful.”

“No one is all-powerful,” replied the doctor. He realised that Smith had the same feverish, consumptive appearance he’d noticed in Brookes; must be a side effect, he thought.

“You should let me go; you promised.”

“I won’t have you ambush us when we get out of here. Lead the way,” John said, propelling the man forward by the arm and kicking him in the shin for good measure.

Sherlock had seen plenty of opium dens and so had John, despite his hearty dislike for the deuced substance, but none had been as squalid and death-soaked.

They went from reeking alcove to blood-stained bunk, coughing for the smoke, eyes straining to discern the countenance of the men and women writhing and wailing inside that stifling Hades.

All hope seemed lost when Smith stumbled on the socked foot that protruded from a pile of grimy blankets.

“Dig him out,” he commanded and, cursing under his breath, the crook complied.

Thankfully Corisande was fast asleep in Sherlock’s arms, because the sight was none too pleasing: the man had made an incision on the vein of his left arm and stuck a Wren quill into the wound, to inject the drug concoction. His bluish face was contorted in a grimace and his bulging eyes were opened wide.

“Rowland Brookes,” the detective murmured, “He must have taken too high a dose.”

With a hungry cry, Smith fell on the body and before John could stop him, he’d taken hold of the bladder attached to the quill and squeezed it to check its contents.

“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, enraptured, then extracted the quill from the dead man’s arm and put both the implements to good use. In less than a minute, he was gasping and moaning on the huddle of discarded blanket, a soul lost to the world.

“What should we do?” the doctor asked. “Carry Brookes away from here?”

 “No,” replied Sherlock, abruptly, “We’ll tell Lestrade. He can use a Runner to do his job for him; they will be grateful for the work.”

“Corisande comes with us,” John said, and there was nothing else to do but return home.

In a strange repeat of the previous occasion, they stopped at the Station just before Lestrade started his day shift and explained what had occurred while drinking tea and eating buttered bread. Sherlock astounded both men by drawing a detailed map of the Rookery and of Little Smoke, placing a cross on the spot where the den was supposed to be.

At Baker Street, they left a sleeping Corisande in the care of Mrs Hudson: the detective was ordered by a stern John to go upstairs and bathe while he gave the landlady a précis of the facts that concerned the young waif.

 

Sherlock soaked in the bath for a while then scrubbed his body with a scratchy cloth; he went about his task in a meticulous manner, like a high priest performing a ritual. The flat was quiet, but he could almost feel John moving about in his bedroom, performing his ablutions in silence; outwardly calm but infused with a white rage that would narrow down to a single point of focus; that point was the detective’s risky behaviour, his disobedience.

There would be punishment, he thought, and his lips curved into a knowing smile.

He washed his hair, but left it wet so that he could comb the curls into submission, a style that conferred on him a touch of gaucheness. He slid on the same shirt he’d been wearing, the rough linen chafing his rosy skin. It smelled of sweat, but he suspected John wouldn’t mind; he left it unbuttoned to the waist and, wearing not another stitch, he went to look for his friend.

 

Sherlock had correctly divined John’s state of mind and the consequences that would derive from it.

In his heart, he had forgiven his companion for his recklessness, but the waves caused inside of him by their fearsome adventure still vibrated down his veins; his skin was so hot that even the frosty water in the basin couldn’t cool it down; he was buzzing and tingling all over and, even though by all accounts he should have been exhausted, he was certain he couldn’t fall sleep if he tried.

Gazing at his reflection into the pier glass mirror, he drew a deep breath and decided what he was going to do. He dressed carefully, lit the candelabrum on the mantelpiece, set a small flagon on the bedside cabinet and moved to the window, where he stood, half-hidden by the heavy brocade curtain, waiting.

 

The door opened onto what, at first, appeared to be an empty room.

“Come in,” the voice ordered.

It was hard and crystalline, like the crack of a silken whip or the chime of a bloodied bell.

Sherlock did as told; a meekness which he could foretell would be the principal feature of their encounter.

“Let me look at you,” John said, but did not move.

The young man glided towards the window, stopping just in front of his friend.

The doctor freed himself from the embrace of the brocade and revealed his attire, which consisted of his red army coat, fully unbuttoned over his bare chest, and a pair of fitted breeches, whose placket was also undone, hardly containing the straining bulge beneath it.

At once, the air between them filled with fire, and Sherlock could not restrain the impulse of caressing the coat’s shining brass buttons with the tip of his fingers. His mouth and tongue felt swollen and his eyes were devouring every detail of stitch and texture. He was so utterly lost that when John touched him, he startled in surprise.

“Sweet thing,” the blond man murmured, but there was no tenderness in his hands as they spun the detective around and placed him in front of the large mirror.

He wound his arms around the boy from behind, one hand across his sternum and the other cupping his erection. The detective moaned and writhed in weak protest: he didn’t want to climax in that manner, and not so swiftly.

“You will do as I say,” John said, reading his friend’s mind. “I will frig you and you will watch as I do. Keep your eyes fixed on the mirror; you can scream if you wish, but do not move.”

Their gazes met in the curved mirror and the slanted eyes blinked briefly in assent.

Being still proved to be a necessity, since as soon as he caught sight of their entwined bodies and the patches of red standing out on his pale skin, Sherlock melted against his lover, and all his subsequent efforts consisted in staying open-eyed.

John worked his nipples and glans with the same merciless efficiency; he poured obscenities into the detective’s ear and bit at his neck in counterpoint to the rush of moans and screams that came from the young man’s throat. Sherlock didn’t last long and knew he wasn’t supposed to: a deft flick of thumb and a squeeze of fist and he was shouting and painting the glass in milky arabesques.

Time and space deserted him and he found himself supine on the bed, his dirty shirt gaping wide open and, above him, John was staring at Sherlock as if he was a land he was planning to invade and conquer.

“Let me in,” the ex-soldier growled, and grabbing a fistful of raven hair, he pulled and tugged until the boy mewled and allowed his mouth to be taken.

The game was no longer a game, Sherlock realised, not when his sex was filling up again, and his tongue was being devoured and tamed. He was willingly drowning and his entire world was disappearing underwater.

“Raise your arms above your head,” John commanded, as his hot palms smoothed down the detective’s legs, which obediently folded at the knee; Sherlock was made of flames and wax, bending in obedience and yet in command of the most intense bliss he’d ever known.

His fingers wrapped around the headboard and his thighs fell to the side: he opened his eyes to find a night-blue gaze eating him alive.

“Please,” he begged and rolled his hips, offering the most secret gift he had to give.

 

The vision would stay in his mind and heart for as long as he lived: tousle-haired, stain-cheeked and crimson-lipped, his boy was begging to be taken, to be had in the most intimate manner. There could be no more delay, not when Sherlock had begged and pleaded for it. _Beautiful, precious creature_ , he thought and gazed adoringly at the arching throat and taut abdomen.

Trailing kisses and bites down the young man’s torso, he felt his own desperation crest, until he could wait no longer.

Swiftly, he bent down and prising the buttocks apart, applied his mouth to the delightful task of loosening the tight muscle.

There were whimpers and lewd groans, and he lapped and suckled and kissed until the furled ring was sopped and open.

“I need you,” rasped the young man, and John’ heart cracked a little.

“My fingers now,” he murmured, stifling the pitiful protests with his mouth.

The rest of the process was completed in a blur of mineral oil and skilful fingers.

When he pushed in with his glans, Sherlock’s eyes flew open and his mouth gaped in a silent scream.

There was heaven, there, at the bottom of a troubled ocean.

 

It hurt, that was undeniable, but it was unlike any ache he’d ever experienced: he wanted it to stab at him deeper, to fill his every crevice and flay him open.

John entered him slowly, his hips sinuous and controlled, but when he felt he could predict the next movement, his lover sank deep into his heat until he was buried fully.

“Oh my love, my love,” Sherlock vaguely heard him chant; someone was whining and keening, and he realised it was his own voice.

John gathered him up close, face buried in Sherlock’s damp neck; he licked the boy’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat; the cold buttons pressed against tender skin, one of them flattened a sore nipple, the sensation like a fresh shower in summer and a needle torturing a pulsing wound: heavenly yet somehow dark, troubling.

He spurred John on, angling his groin, bucking his hips; he knew he shouldn’t provoke him, and yet he wanted it.

"Stay still," the blond man barked, but he did not listen. He wanted his reaction, yearned for more of his rage.

Suddenly, the ex-soldier rose up to his knees, and holding Sherlock by the hips, started thrusting and pumping into him like the very breath in his lungs depended on it.

“Mine, mine” he grunted, driving into the slick opening with increasing ferocity; the detective shouted his bliss and, when he felt the tell-tale signs of release, he pleaded for more and was rewarded with strong fingers squeezing his dripping erection.

The delicious convulsions of his orgasm were nothing compared to the unending ecstasy of being filled by his lover’s stream, of belonging, at last, to another being.

 


	22. The Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, since the previous one was overly long.  
> More smut, you have been warned   
> Enter Victor Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Standard was launched in 1827 by businessman Charles Baldwin and printed in Blackfriars. George IV was seven years into his reign and the Standard made it its mission to take a stick to the prime minister of the day, George Canning.  
> Note 2: Henry Angelo's Reminiscences, 1830: "His feet were thrust into a bran-span new pair of fashionable pumps."  
> Note 3: John Willis's Art of Stenography was published in 1602

_“Death shall not separate us. O, my lords,_

_I but deceiv'd your eyes with antic gesture,_

_When one news straight came huddling on another_

_Of death ! and death ! and death ! still I danced forward;_

_But it struck home, and here, and in an instant._

_Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries_

_Can vow a present end to all their sorrows,_

_Yet live to [court] 1 new pleasures, and outlive them._

_They are the silent griefs which cut the heartstrings;_

_Let me die smiling”_

_The Broken Heart (excerpt) – John Ford_

 

* * *

 

 

“I should,” John murmured, moving to pull out.

“It will hurt otherwise,” he explained, but Sherlock held him tight and shook his curls, moaning in protest.

They were entwined like tenacious vines: the detective finally winding his arms around his lover, who was drenched in sweat yet wouldn’t discard his army coat.

“I can feel you still,” the young man whispered, and rubbed his flushed chest against skin and fabric, caressing down his friend’s clothed back and bare buttocks.

In truth, the doctor had not softened completely; it had never happened to him before, but then again he’d never met with such love and lust combined and distilled into the same unique individual.

“I did wrong, before, at the Rookery,” admitted Sherlock, as he gazed at his companion with a shyness of demeanour that was utterly unlike him.

“You should have given me a hint,” John replied, anger resurfacing; he started to softly kiss the reddened lips when the boy suddenly parted them, letting the tip of his tongue show, just a little. He met it with his own and, grabbing a fistful of curls, delved inside that inviting mouth with a heady admixture of sensuality and resentment; he wanted to teach him a lesson and possess him; when the former instinct seemed to prevail, the latter slapped at it, like a rogue wave. Between their stomachs, Sherlock’s erection was firming up again; the young man’s bony hips were digging into him, seeking an impossible fusion.

“Don’t ever leave me,” the detective implored, bowing his upper body to press even more against his lover’s, in blatant submission.

“Never,” replied John, ravaging his friend’s mouth and neck with the force of his yearning. Still drenched in its previous emissions, his erection had regained its full power and needed tending to.

Sherlock was desperate for it too, but wanted his lover to set the pace.

“Deep and slow,” thought the doctor, and pressing the young man to the crumpled bed-sheets, he started pounding in ad out of him with a hypnotic rhythm. At every stab, he tugged at Sherlock’s hair, forcing him to keep his eyes open and watch. Each and every thrust was accompanied by the boy’s ecstatic moans and by his seducer’s grunts.

Both men being already half-sated, their love-making was no longer a chase for release, but a discarding of past barriers, of crusted sorrows and futile delusions; they lay there, crashing into one another with the sincerity of flesh and seed. They stayed in that suspended heaven of carnality and sentiment until the intensity was almost unbearable.

John wanted Sherlock to find his bliss first, but when he bit down on the man’s neck and drove wildly into him, he was met with the miracle of simultaneous pleasure, and if he had died then he would have departed the happiest of men.

 

“I do love you tremendously,” a clean and proper Sherlock mumbled, already in the throes of sleep.

John had made sure nothing untoward had happened to his delicate body, had dabbed at it with a soapy cloth; forced the young man to drink lime and water to recover from the strain and deposited him back in his bed, soft and heavy with exhaustion.

“Are you sure it’s not only the red coat that got you?” joked the doctor.

“That too,” answered the detective, trying for a pout which turned into a savage yawn.

“You’ll tell me later,” John chuckled and, wrapping his lover inside his arms with a contented sigh, he waited for slumber to overtake them both.

 

“Corisande won’t be our maid,” the detective declared, determined and close to stamping his feet.

His companion looked up at him from the pages of the Gazette and arched his eyebrows.

“Why, it is the ideal solution: she will learn a profession and Mrs Hudson will have an additional helping hand; her present maid is getting on in years,” he replied.

“She is young and pretty and will only grow prettier,” Sherlock insisted and when his friend still looked on with a baffled expression, he continued: “You might… after all, you do…” and couldn’t finish, as his voice was drowned by John’s laughter.

“My dear, I already told you,” the blond man said, turning serious, “You have no cause for jealousy, none at all; I assure you: that book is closed and locked and you alone hold the key to it. But,” he went on, seeing that his lover was still fractious, “We could ask Mrs Hudson to instruct the girl to stay downstairs and attend to such chores that don’t require her presence in our lodgings. Does that meet with you approval, your highness?”

“Yes, I… yes,” conceded Sherlock, lips curved into a moue, “that will be satisfactory. I don’t want you to think me heartless; I just fear this novel intimacy between us could be spoilt by the sudden interference of a third party.”

The words came out in a stream of consciousness and John knew how much they must have cost him.

“I agree wholeheartedly, my darling,” he said, and smiled brightly for no other reason than he was indecently happy. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

The detective picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page with interest.

“We should find out whether Brookes’ body has been retrieved and confirm the cause of his death; after that, I would like to see whether it could become front page news, worded in such manner as to provoke a certain reaction from Sir Astley.”

“That way he will be scared off and retreat into more sedate habits, at least for a length of time.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I wish precisely the opposite,” he said, his eyes luminous and cat-like, “I failed to mention that I know one of the journalists at the Standard. His name is Victor Trevor and we were at Eton together. I was supposed to be fagging for him but refused to, and he took it surprisingly in his stride. We kept in touch, sporadically, and I am certain he won’t refuse to help. And before you suggest anything: no, we did not indulge in any extra-curricular activities and he’s married, happily so.”

“I did not say a word,” John replied, but he was glad of the explanation. He realised they couldn’t possibly continue being wary of each other’s pasts, but also knew that it would take time to establish the type of relationship that was based on profound trust and reciprocal knowledge.

When they went downstairs, they found Billy in confabulation with Corisande: the girl had been provisionally dressed with some of the boy's old clothes, but her femininity still shone through and was clearly captivating the young boy. She nodded at his gestures and replied sotto voce, but from time to time scratched at her neck and arms in that revelatory impulse due to drug withdrawal.

As soon as she saw them, she bowed her head and returned inside; Wiggins followed her with his eyes then signalled something to Sherlock.

“Yes, she wants opium, but she will get none from us,” the detective replied, “And you would do well to take her under your wing and teach her about the rewards of a more abstemious life.”

John snorted and patted a confused Billy on the back.

“Don’t worry, my lad,” he said, “He just meant: treat her well and help her to get up when she’d down, that’s all.”

“That’s not it at all,” countered the detective.

“Yes, it is,” insisted the doctor, pulling his friend with him into the cab.

 

Their visit at Coven Garden Police Station was a short one and it served only to confirm what they already knew.

Coroner Somers had indeed stated that Brookes' death had been due to an excessive dosage of a strong opiate concoction and that the young man’s body had already been ravaged both by drugs and pulmonary consumption. Like Trueby, he’d shown no signs of struggle, so it was to be assumed that he’d consumed the fatal dose voluntarily; however, due to the location where he’d been found, it was also possible that he’d been too intoxicated to realise he was being injected with the drug. One thing that corroborated the former hypothesis was the presence of badly healed cuts on the victim's arms. Somers had been unable to confirm the type of opiate, but he had found no trace of other poisonous substances.

 

The bran-span new offices of the Standard were located on the top floor of an imposing building in Blackfriars. The paper's founder, businessman Charles Baldwin, was deemed to be the scourge of the establishment, having famously started a feud with erstwhile Prime Minister George Canning. A shrewd operator and innovator, he surrounded himself with like-minded people, usually young and daring, with little or no respect for the status-quo and a penchant for digging in the dirt.

They found Victor Trevor ensconced in a dilapidated chair, writing furiously and shouting at his copy boy, who was leaping about like a March hare, retrieving books and providing scraps of information.

“Holmes, what a surprise!” he exclaimed, standing up to shake Sherlock’s hand and causing a pile of papers to collapse to the floor; the boy dashed immediately to the rescue and risked being trampled on by his very enthusiastic superior.

“This is my associate, Doctor John Watson,” the detective said, and Trevor studied John with a practiced gaze, extending his hand with a glint in his eye.

“I bet he wouldn’t have minded fagging for you one bit,” he said, and winked at the doctor, who decided that he liked this unapologetic young man.

Victor was tall, reed-thin and endowed with a thick mane of straw-blond hair that was perpetually being tortured by his constant pulling and tearing at it. His grey eyes seemed to fix his interlocutor in a challenging manner, but it was merely a consequence of their short-sightedness.

“Why are you here, my friend?” he asked, sending the March hare on the hunt for two additional chairs. “Has our Earl Grey finally been caught in glorious dalliance with another Duchess?”

When he saw Sherlock’s puzzled frown, he chuckled.

“Of course you wouldn’t know what I am referring to; you never did care about idle gossip, unless it pertained to some mystery or other.”

“I have a juicy little scandal for you, but it won’t unfold completely until we give it a little nudge.”

“And I am supposed to be the prodding stick, I assume.”

“Crude but not incorrect,” replied the detective, who went to explain the gist of the story. “You see, we have no actual proof that he worked for Sir Astley, but we are certain of it. If Brookes’ death gets into the papers, he might get rattled in the wrong way. Even if it’s not mentioned, he could still be uneasy and relinquish his secret activities for a while.”

“And you don’t wish for that to happen.”

“No,” said John “We want him to feel that he has been relieved of all anxieties with regards to that matter.”

“I can’t print an outright lie,” said Victor, brushing away a lock of hair that had flopped on his brow, “I can be allusive, but can’t risk libel, not even for you, my friend,” he concluded, kicking the detective’s foot.

Sherlock glared at him – his boots had only just been polished that very morning – and went on explaining:

“It is not a lie to declare that Brookes was a drug fiend, an abuser of youths and a murderer. I have caught him in the act and held the victim in my arms. You should just add some colour: say that the New Police – you can name Inspector Lestrade of the Coven Garden Division; he’d love to have another story to boast about – have finally succeeded in capturing a dangerous felon who would lure young boys and, after taking advantage of them, would murder them and sell their corpses to the hospitals of the city. Refer to the case of Burke and Hare and do not mention the medical profession other than in vague terms. It will seem that the case is closed: glory for all concerned and a sigh of relief for our famous surgeon.”

Victor’s eyes danced with the joy of having just been offered an exclusive on a silver platter.

“Would I be able to have a word with Lestrade? Is he the one of the baton-charge?”

The detective sighed and his lover laughed.

“The very same,” the doctor answered.

“Yes, let me just write you an introduction,” said Sherlock, and taking his old friend’s pen, he scribbled a few words on the back of his card and signed them with a flourish.

“There is another thing,” he added, “This is nothing to do with Cooper; it’s a sort of personal matter. Would you print this on the next edition? I will pay for it, yes, I insist.”

“Is it a poem?” Trevor asked, reading from the scrap of paper his friend handed him.

“An excerpt from a tragedy by John Ford,” Sherlock replied.

No further clarification was given and, proof of their ancient understanding, none was asked.

They left the young man and his over-worked helper and walked back to their carriage.

“What was it?” asked the doctor.

“The fragment of a speech by Calantha,” said the detective. “I do not wish to keep you in the dark, but it is no more than pure conjecture on my part and it could all amount to nothing.”

“Wasn’t Calantha the role played by that blood-smeared boy, David Something?”

“Celliers, yes, well remembered, my dear,” Sherlock quipped, inordinately proud of his friend’s mental acuity. “You are learning fast.”

“Insolent young cub,” John chided, “And a secretive one at that; but I am willing to forgive you, as long as it won’t end with your life being once again threatened by a knife-wielding ruffian.”

“There will be danger, since it’s the nature of my metier” the detective conceded. “I shall do my very best to keep you apprised of the possible risks before they present themselves. I can’t always predict them, despite what you think.”

“I think you are simply splendid, my dear, but reckless and impudent too. Interesting fellow, your Eton friend,” John added.

“You like him.”

“He understands you; only too well, apparently.”

“That thing about the fagging?” the detective asked, feigning to look down at the muddy river bank.

His lover nodded.

“May ask you why you rebelled against his authority yet you seem, nay you are, ensnared by mine?”

Sherlock’s cheek coloured and his gaze fixed on the muddy waters of the Thames.

“I detest being ordered about for no reason,” he said, and was about to add to his explanation when his friend stopped him.

“Don’t say anything more,” John whispered, fondly. “Forgive me, I was being unspeakably vulgar. You don’t have to provide reasons for what you are, my love. In this instance, the mystery is just another marvellous ingredient to be savoured.”

“You really should be writing sonnets,” the detective jested, his good humour restored.

“I should be updating my journal, but our adventures are so numerous and pressing that it has been impossible to commit them to paper. I shall have to learn stenography.”

Their eyes met and they couldn’t suppress their mirth.


	23. Christabel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit and a funeral

_The lovely lady, Christabel,_

_Whom her father loves so well,_

_What makes her in the wood so late,_

_A furlong from the castle gate?_

_Christabel (excerpt) – Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

* * *

 

John was debating over a choice of metaphor, when he heard a knock at the door.

He had been writing for over an hour, during which time Sherlock had been in his study reading the script for the Vampyre play and consulting various other publications. Something was fermenting inside that brilliant mind, John was certain of it, and he was hoping his friend would soon confide in him.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?” he said, smiling at the elderly woman.

“There's a lady’s come to see you two gentlemen,” her tone and demeanour were not unlike the one she’d used when she’d announced Lady Vere's visit.

“Another unusual specimen?” he quipped.

The landlady tilted her head to the side in her customary bird-like gesture.

“Don’t think me staid, Doctor Watson; on the contrary, I do appreciate a woman who knows her own mind and doesn’t submit without a fight,” she replied, “But when you’ve spent some time in the company of Sherlock, you do begin to acquire, how shall I put it, a sixth sense of sorts. The lady in question - a Miss Light - is undoubtedly troubled, even though she’s the reticent sort.”

“I’m sure it's a fair prognosis,” John said, “Please just let me fetch Sherlock then kindly show her in.”

 

The appearance of Miss Light at 221b Baker Street did not surprise the detective; when John went to inform him, he shut the volume he was perusing and followed him to the drawing room without uttering a word.

Christabel Light was drawn as tight as a lute string: her face was even more Sphinx-like and her cornflower eyes danced with disquietude. She wore another plain muslin frock, this time in midnight blue; her hair was still tied in a bun, but some tendrils had escaped, betraying some of the woman’s state of mind.

“To what do we owe the honour of this visit?” John asked, offering their guest a glass of sherry, which she unexpectedly accepted.

“It’s Rowena, my sister,” she explained, as if she suspected they might have forgotten. “I fear she’s becoming distracted. Forgive my bluntness, but I’ve been mulling this over on my own for far too long.”

“Please, do continue,” urged the detective. He had been fiddling with a silver case and now he extracted a Turkish cigarillo from it and lit it with a tinder stick. John had observed the entire procedure, thoroughly fascinated by his lover’s balletic grace.

Sherlock offered the lit cigar to Christabel, who accepted it with silent gratitude.

“You know that we own that horrid plot of land you were asking us about,” she started, mildly heartened by the tobacco and alcohol. “And you are also aware that my sister has been heavily influenced by the writings of Swedenborg. She has been frequenting a group of people who believe in the afterlife and in the existence of angels, but lately I have been remarking on how deep an impression these concepts have left on her sensitive mind.”

“Does that group have a name?” asked John.

“Not a specific denomination, no,” she replied, her gaze shifting to the side.

“Of late, long before you came to see us, Rowena has been repeating odd, alarming things: that the dead will rise, that they will take our place and walk the earth in our stead. She insists she doesn’t remember having uttered them, and I wonder, I ask myself if perhaps the surfeit of spirituality has unbalanced her fragile mind.”

“Is she a drug user, for medicinal reasons, I mean?” the doctor enquired.

Miss Light’s face took on an aquiline sharpness, beak-like in her sudden anger.

“She’d not stoop that low, despite what faults she may have.”

“People take laudanum for all manner of aches, my dear lady.”

“We do not believe in suppressing pain,” she said, curtly. “Part of this imaginary contract we subscribe to demands that we not repel the slings and harrows of outrageous fortune.”

“When we first met, you led me to believe you were a creature of science,” said the detective, his upper lip curled in distaste. “And yet now you are asking to believe this twaddle.”

Christabel’s eyes flashed again, but she refrained from speaking. When she did reply, her words were imbued with feeling.

“A life of mere science would be a life lived in solitude, for who would commune with a stone-cold heart?” she said, staring Sherlock in the eye. The young man held her gaze for a moment, but was eventually compelled to look away.

“Science and heart are not mutually exclusive,” John said. “Some of the cruellest people I have had the misfortune of meeting were deeply religious. I have long held the view that the unperturbed vision of a scientist is often more compassionate than the inflamed heart of a zealot.” He wouldn’t let anyone get away with disparaging his friend’s most cherished beliefs, not until he had any breath left in his lungs.

She bowed her head, slightly chastened, but didn’t offer any other form of apology.

“What do you want us to do?” asked the detective, “We are neither friend nor family; why would she confide in us?”

“You made a favourable impression on her, Mr Holmes. She believes that your empathy was inspired by a sort of supernatural vision. Her understanding of Mesmerism has led her to believe you might be a magnetizer.”

“A what?” the doctor asked.

“An individual who has the power to manipulate the magnetic fluid present in every individual in order to find answers to their questions,” replied the detective.

“Precisely,” said Miss Light. “I’m here to ask you, to beg you to come to our house and ‘mesmerise’ Rowena.”

John was undecided whether to laugh at the suggestion or to merely concede that indeed his lover was certainly capable of entrancing any creature in existence.

“I assume you must have a strategy. I can hardly offer my services uninvited,” Sherlock said, while his companion tried not to show his bafflement.

“I was thinking of a séance,” the woman replied.

“While I know that books have been written on the subject, I have never personally taken part in any such ceremony and I suspect I may be incapable of playing the part. Besides, I am led to believe such rituals require the presence of more than one participant. If that’s the case, I would not be able to interact directly with your sister.”

“Her trust in you will deepen and that should ease you into her confidence.”

Sherlock mused and lit another cigar, which he started to smoke in silence; when he spoke again, his question was seemingly unrelated.

“May I ask you, what is the origin of your rather unusual name?”

The woman’s tense features relaxed into a smile.

“Our father’s idea of a joke: Rowena’s the first born and she was troublesome, he decided he would name his second child Abel; I came instead, so he changed it to Christabel.”

“That means your sister was to play Cain to your Abel,” John said, “Not very charitable on your father’s part, even though I’m sure it was meant in jest.”

“He had a rather skewed sense of humour,” she conceded.

“I accept the invitation,” the detective declared. “Upon one stipulation: that you will invite Lady Caroline Cooper, too.”

The woman’s reaction was muted, but there was a flash of ire in her countenance that did not escape either man.

“Rowena barely knows Lady Cooper and does not consider her more than a casual acquaintance,” she said.

“Your sister must know her well enough to have discussed my visit with her.”

“She couldn’t have,” she affirmed, haughtily, “Ever since you came to our house, we have hardly met anybody, and most certainly not Lady Cooper!”

“And what about you?” he asked.

“Rowena mentioned her to me once, maybe… that’s all.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” John insisted.

“Of course!” exclaimed the woman.

“You just told us that your sister is having trouble separating reality from dream; you can’t be as adamant about her actions,” said Sherlock.

The woman was taken aback, but was forced to consider that eventuality.

“It may be as you say, but I consider it very unlikely,” she said, “Yes, exceedingly so,” she repeated, but her countenance betrayed her uncertainty.

“In any case, I would like that lady to be present,” the detective said, “I have my reasons.”

Christabel glared at him but did not protest.

“Perhaps you could invite her to dinner,” said John, “And afterwards, we could have the séance.”

“What, instead of liqueurs and tobacco?” she sneered.

“I would prefer not to include victuals into the bargain,” interjected Sherlock, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.

“What about a masquerade evening?” proposed Miss Light.

 She had succeeded at what countless clients had failed before her: she had confounded Sherlock Holmes.

 

“You nearly dropped your sherry glass,” said John; he was mildly ashamed that he was enjoying this so much, but he thought that the aristocratic aplomb of his companion could do with a little upset, now and then.

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” exclaimed the young man. “You must have noticed her choice of attire, the austerity of her traits, the way she wears her hair: there’s a robust strain of Calvinism there, a marked distaste for idle pleasures. I don’t deny that she may harbour violent passions, that no, as they would still be compatible with a stern, solemn character; but a masquerade?” he exclaimed, giving an exaggerated shudder. “A masquerade is a concept such a nature as Christabel Light’s would find unacceptable.”

“Perchance, you are speaking of yourself.”

The detective approached his friend with an air of devilish cunning.

“What did I tell you, my darling, on the very first time we met? What did I reveal of my past on that very momentous night?” he murmured in John’s ear.

“You said many things,” the doctor replied, utterly distracted by the flutter of hot breath on tender skin.

“Wapping,” the young man offered, making it sound like a lewd invitation.

“The execution,” John stuttered, “The two hanged sailors.”

“I did say that, as a child, I wanted to be a pirate. Why would you think I’d find dressing up anything but a delicious challenge?”

“You told Miss Light of your doubts about playing a part.”

“There are several types of deception, and while I feel a singular distaste in duping a trusting innocent, I do not experience the same pangs when my duplicity harms nobody and furthers the course of the investigation.”

John trailed his fingers along his lover’s jaw and replied:

“In other words, you love charades. Will you dress as a pirate then?”

“And give away so much of myself to a group of strangers?”

The blond man sprinkled light kisses on Sherlock’s neck and moaned in vague dissent.

“Was there anything that struck you as odd?” the detective asked, as he melted into his friend’s embrace.

There was a quiet interlude, during which the two men delighted in each other’s warmth and tenderness, until John came to a momentous realisation.

“Silver Robbie mentioned masquerades when he told us about Trueby,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a bright, contented smile.

“My confusion should have made Miss Light believe in my complete ignorance on the subject.”

“Wait a moment: where you lying the entire time? Even now, when you spoke to me about her Calvinism and her attire?”

John was again unsure whether to admire the detective for his mastery or scold him for his duplicity.

“Apologies, my dear, but I needed to avert her suspicions,” Sherlock said, coyly lowering his gaze, “Besides, I wanted to test my acting ability on the person who knows me best.”

“Deceitful beast,” the older man mumbled; still, he kept his friend in his arms and didn’t let him go.

 

The evening went by without further incidents, and for once they were able to spare some time for their private occupations: John continued writing the account of their adventures on his journal, while Sherlock concentrated on his research and occasionally played a few jangled notes on his violin.

When the night fell, as if by mute agreement, they smoked one last cigar in the drawing room and imbibed a measure of whisky from the same cup; and afterwards, when the fire had ceased its dance and the shadows had grown longer, they retired to Sherlock's bedchamber. If their previous encounter had been all flames and rage, this was honey and whispers: they lay side by side, and consumed one another with an aching tenderness that knew no respite.

 

The cortège attending Tom Trader’s obsequies was a sight to behold.

Sherlock had arranged for the little coffin to be interred in St. George Gardens cemetery in Bloomsbury in a secluded plot owned by his family. They had thought about Trueby too, but had found out that his body had already been disposed of by Stamford, who had him buried in a King’s Cross graveyard.

Billy had served as a go-between, and the gang of the Forty Thieves had appeared as if out of nowhere, walking about the hallowed grounds like a swarm of colourful ants.

While the elderly gravedigger lowered the casket inside the freshly-dug hole, they fidgeted and surveyed each other with restless, famished eyes; uncaring of the solemnity of the occasion, afraid of being confronted with the finality of a death they had cheated more than once already, the boys yearned to go back to their customary pursuits; the familiarity and squalor of their habitual haunts somehow kept them safe from the nagging doubts on the worthlessness of their existence.

Some heads had been shorn to prevent lice, some were covered in long, greasy hair; eyes crusted and large into meagre, sallow faces; there were those who led a more plentiful life, protected as they were by an older youth, one who became best friend and lover, mother and father and, at times, even the whole universe.

They regarded Sherlock and John with curiosity and suspicion, glancing at their immaculate attire and fighting the temptation to filch a watch or a purse.

Silver Robbie had cautioned them against such behaviour, but he knew their fickle, ungodly nature only too well; after all, for better or worse, he was one of them and was aware that starvation and violence were always outside their door, waiting to be let in.

“He was a good ‘un was Tom,” he told the two men, who were watching the gravedigger’s work with sombre countenances.

“We just wish we could do more to help you,” John said, swallowing around the tightness in his throat.

“They’ll come for more, and that’s when we’ll get ‘em,” he replied, nodding. In the wintry light, his curls resembled a powdered wig and his grey eyes were as cloudy as the sky. He wore a long crimson-lined cape and patent black pumps; his striking appearance would have commanded the attention of any crowd and it didn’t fail to attract the covetous yet respectful glances of his peers.

“Billy says you got that bastard that done it,” he said, spitting at the memory of Rowland Brookes.

“He was dead when we found him,” replied Sherlock. “We have made sure his demise will look like the end of this particular story.”

“But it isn’t,” Robbie said, staring at the mud that threatened to smear his pretty shoes, “I know it isn’t! There’s more to it, isn’t there, Sir?”

“Yes, and that’s why you have to keep your eyes open. Be prepared, for the time will come again and you have to be ready when it does.”

“I told you, Sir; that I’ll do anything you ask; there is nowt I haven’t seen and little I have not done.”

“You shall become famous pretty soon,” the detective said, smiling, “The strange boy with the silver hair.”

The youth’s countenance acquired a sudden gravitas, like that of a much older man and his chiselled features hardened: he still resembled a Renaissance statue, but instead of a cherub, he could perhaps have been an angel that had incurred God's punishment because of his rebellious zeal.

“May it be soon,” he said, offering Sherlock his plump hand. The detective shook it and, with a last exchange of glances, the compact was solemnly sealed.

 

“What did you mean by that? I hope it’s not a case of posthumous fame,” said John.

They were sitting inside the Unicorn tavern and sharing a hearty luncheon of mutton chops and potatoes after having parted with a few guineas to ensure the boys also had their feast. Silver Robbie had departed for King’s Cross to pay his final respects to Sultan.

“I didn’t know how to tell you this without incurring your disapproval,” replied the detective, “but I have arranged to meet Sir Astley later this evening; I shall visit him at St. Mary Axe and, while he recounts his grisly deeds, I will subtly contrive to suggest our Robbie as a possible subject for study. His head should be very interesting to a phrenologist and as for his other attractions,” he added, grimacing and setting down his fork and knife.

John kept at his food until he had properly chewed the information he’d just been given. After a while, he smiled and shook his head.

“You ate your food without protests,” he said, “Because you wanted to do something for me in exchange for the bitter potion you’re forcing down my throat, It is rather sweet, in a perverted sort of way.”

He sighed and took a sip from his tankard.

“What about Emma Clairmont? You seem to have forgotten all about that poor girl,” he protested, knowing full well he was being unfair.

“Don’t fret, my darling,” Sherlock reassured him, holding his hand underneath the table, “This affair has many intricate strands; at first sight, they seemed to pertain to separate patterns, but as I keep staring at them, a unifying theme is starting to emerge.”

“I just wish for it to be over, so that I can finally finish my narrative and sell it to your friend Victor for publication.”

The detective’s shoulders shook in silent mirth.

“Fame is your true love, I see,” he said, and John thought he couldn’t have been more wrong.


	24. What We May Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two tales, the same night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sir Astley Cooper was not a criminal at all. He was a very prominent anatomist and a good doctor. But he did have a network of body-snatchers at his service and he did vivisect dogs and other animals (and he lured young boys to do the dirty work for him).  
> Note 2: John Keats really studied under Cooper and passed his exams, but decided to leave medicine to pursue poetry. Thank heavens for that.  
> Note 3: The quote about "costuming angel" is by Jean Cocteau

_“Mad, Ophelia lets the cat out of the bag.  “We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”  Polonius knows very clearly what he and the other people are, within the ruling conventions.  Hamlet knows this, but also what they may be – outside the local system of masks and humours.”_

_Eyeless in Gaza (excerpt) – Aldous Huxley_

 

* * *

 

In daily life, it often occurs that we construe in our minds the image of an event or a person that later turns out to be grossly incorrect; usually, it happens when we are facing circumstances utterly novel to us, and we have no other choice but trust our preordained set of beliefs.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s case: he had read extensively about Sir Astley and he had already met him. On those bases, he had prepared a strategy and he’d intended to apply it to the letter.

When the servant ushered him into the surgeon’s dissecting room, he found the great man in his shirt-sleeves bent over a set of steaming crucibles and alembics, whence came a pungent reek of potassium nitrate and rotten flesh.

His wavy locks were plastered to his sweaty face and his eyes were reddened by the vapours.

“My dear Mr. Holmes,” he said, inviting him in with a flick of his hand. He wore a pair of thick, elbow-length black gloves that were smeared with a plethora of malodorous substances.

“I wanted to show you something you may find interesting,” he continued. “Although it is not related to the cranium, I’m afraid, but to an almost diametrically opposite organ.”

The detective had at least worn suitable clothing in the guise of a grey smock-frock, which had been much admired by John, especially _before_ the outfit had been completed by a pair of loose trousers.

“Here,” Cooper said when the young man approached him. “What do you think this is?” he enquired, with a wry smile.

Sherlock fought to suppress the flush that threatened to paint his throat and cheeks.

“A scrotal sac,” he murmured in a high-pitched yet firm tone of voice.

“Well done,” was the amused comment. “If I point at some of the parts, will you be able to name them?”

“I shall try,” he replied, unable to take his eyes off the severed organ.

“What is this?”

“The septum”

“And this?”

“Cremaster muscle”

“And what about that?”

“The spermatic cord”

During this odd examination, Sir Astley had inched closer to the young man so that their shoulders were touching. If it hadn’t been for the gloves, he would have probably been patting him on the back, or lower, Sherlock thought.

“Do you see the membrane that envelops the cord? It doesn’t have a name yet; I was thinking of calling it Cooper’s fascia.”

“I suppose it is a nobler feat than naming a pet dog,” the detective observed, trying to sound amused.

The surgeon barked a potent laugh that shook his burly frame.

“Let me clean up then I will take you into the other room, where I keep my favourite specimens. In the meantime, I took the liberty of selecting a book for your delectation. I wonder if you know this already.”

Inside a rose-wood cabinet protected by a thick glass pane, was a leather-bound volume with creamy wafer-thin pages.

Sherlock gasped when he realised the treasure he’d been presented with.

“Manger’s Bibliotheca Chemica Curiosa,” he whispered and when he reached out, his fingers were shaking.

“You can touch it,” the man said, from a distance. “I have another copy which I keep locked up in a safe place. One should always own two copies of the books one worships; in fact, this principle should apply to everything, animate or inanimate.”

The young man barely heard, lost as he already was in contemplation of the precious text and its exquisite illustrations.

“They must be worth a fortune,” he said, caressing the delicate paper with reverent fingertips.

“They were costly,” admitted Sir Astley, who had removed his gloves and scrubbed his hands and forearms with castile soap. “But nothing is as precious as the human body; nothing has the same capacity to captivate and enlighten.”

“You can purchase an object, but you can never really own a human being,” replied Sherlock, who was intensely aware of the other’s towering presence.

“I wonder,” the surgeon said, while drying his limbs with an embroidered linen sheet, “I’m sure you agree with me that scientific progress is worth the sacrifice of a few insignificant lives.”

“You consider science the most valuable of endeavours,” the young man said, carefully turning the pages and bending closer to inspect the intricate details of the images.

“Do you know that John Keats was one of students?” Cooper asked, “A prodigiously bright youth, who could have gone far in this profession but who preferred a more futile occupation.”

“I’m no poet myself, but I was led to believe his verses are of incomparable beauty.”

The man smirked and smoothed down his sleeves, adjusting the frills at his wrists.

“His poetry will never cure deafness or tie a common cord artery,” he commented, acidly.

The detective turned his innocent, admiring gaze on the man and exhaled a deep sigh.

“I fear you have touched a sore spot, Sir, for I too have dabbled in scientific research but have lacked the requisite consistency.”

“Perchance you only need a patron, my dear boy,” the surgeon said, mellifluously, “Someone with the ability and the wealth of experience to steer you in the right direction.”

“That would be marvellous, but I would never, could never presume that such a man would waste his time on a callow, ignorant youth,” Sherlock said, his eyes wide and devoid of guile.

“You have beautiful hands,” observed Sir Astley, lightly caressing the young man’s fingers, where they were reposed, open like a fan, on the leather cover of Manger’s book. The detective schooled his muscled to stillness, but inside him a chord of terror had started to quiver.

“They should prove dexterous enough for any manner of operations,” the older man continued, “Provided you are not the impressionable, moralistic sort.”

“I would very much like to see your treasures,” Sherlock said, hoping the surgeon’s enthusiasm for his specimens would distract him from other pursuits. John had been right, he thought, and how he missed his presence and protection.

Cooper’s dark fathomless eyes stared into his own, and for a breathless instant he felt like his very soul was being plucked from the depths of his being.

“Come with me,” the surgeon said; and like Dante, Sherlock followed Virgil through Hell.

 

John had disobeyed his own orders, which prescribed he would stay at Baker Street in order not to arouse suspicion, and had instead decided to hire a private cab and visit the Shakespeare theatre. On his way back, he reasoned, he could pass by Bishopsgate and since St. Mary Axe was on the way, he may, if chance permitted it, stumble upon his companion’s waiting carriage. He trusted Billy’s innate ability to sense danger, but even he did sometimes falter, as their previous experience at the Birdcage had confirmed.

Even as his rational mind told him that nothing could happen to Sherlock, John's heart spoke in a different tongue. Instinctively, he would have forbidden such a dangerous assignment, but he knew that would have spelled the end to their partnership. It was absurd that he, a physician, shouldn’t be the one interrogating Sir Astley on his procedures, but on the other hand, the surgeon’s real intentions were transparent and they did not include a lowly doctor and ex-soldier. Cooper had impeccable taste - that John was ready to admit - but he would rather die than allow him, or any other man, to lay an undesired finger on Sherlock Holmes.

Armed with boiling blood and a pistol, he decided that the time for underground passages had come and gone; instead, he forcefully knocked at the front entrance while shouting Conquest’s name.

“Dear man, have pity,” the manager said, when he finally emerged from the bowels of the theatre to let the doctor in, “I thought the knights of the apocalypse had descended upon us.”

“Why would they come here?”

“In search of a little merriment, perhaps?” suggested Conquest.

John took one look at the bedraggled man: his preposterous wig had lost its luscious abundance, his make-up was drying inside the funnels traced by his wrinkles and couldn’t disguise the black circle round his worried eyes.

“What is the matter? You are starting to truly resemble a revenant. Have the rats drunk your blood?”

Conquest shrieked as if he’d just been slapped across the face.

“You shouldn’t jest, my friend. I fear the play is cursed, much like the one we shall not name,” he said, indicating the Shakespeare’s chalice that Sherlock had previously admired.

“You better tell me what ails you, my dear fellow,” insisted John.

“Come to my dressing room, I need a stiff one.”

 

“Where is Stirling?” the doctor enquired, as he stepped over various discarded props and bits of scenery strewn around as if by a potent thunderstorm.

“He’s gone back home.”

“I thought he was sharing digs with you upstairs.”

“Not anymore, he’s not. He comes during the day, like the others, but he doesn’t want to be here at night; the place gives him the shivers, he said. Can’t blame him unfortunately; not after what happened to poor Celliers.”

Once inside his lair - and the definition was an apt one, seeing as grime and dust were the lordly occupants of that tawdry, disordered room – Conquest plucked a bottle and two cloudy glasses from inside a rickety cabinet; he poured the gin with unsteady hands under the scrutiny of John’s worried gaze. He drank his measure in one gulp than poured some more.

“Celliers is the boy we saw covered in fake blood.”

“Yes, he was hired to play Calantha, one of Ruthven’s victims; well, in fact she’s the one who knows him most intimately, to whom he’s revealed the secret of his identity. Having a boy play the role meant I could make subtle allusions to the new laws, on how they have transformed the lives of our lot,” he continued, unaware that once again he’d taken for granted John’s sexual proclivities. The doctor let it pass, as there were more important things to discuss.

“Why do you speak in the past tense?”

“Because the boy’s disappeared, that’s why. We thought he’d just got tired of us, but when we asked at his workshop, they said they never heard his name. He was lying to us all this time, you see; and now he’s gone, and only days before the opening.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” John said, wanting to reassure the poor man. “He could have fallen ill or perhaps it’s to do with his family. Have you been to his lodgings?”

Conquest gave him a sheepish smile.

“Truth is we don’t know anything at all about the boy; he appeared out of nowhere, and what with his blue eyes and slender figure he could easily pass for a girl. I hired him on the spot, no questions asked. He left the day you came in and never returned.”

“While I concur that it is indeed a mystery, I don’t see why Stirling should be so worried.”

The man swallowed a mouthful of gin and gritted his teeth. He was obviously trying to hide something, but John would not permit it.

“There were other things, trifles really,” the manager confessed. “Objects that had been moved out of place, steps echoing in the dead of night; probably rats, I said, but Sam's convinced that the play is tainted.”

“Not that it matters, but I don’t recall a Calantha in the original story. Wasn’t the lady in question named Ianthe?” asked John, sipping his drink with caution; it was as strong as acid and probably almost as corrosive, he mused.

“Well remembered, Doctor,” Conquest replied, grinning. “A French fellow decided to stage it and changed a number of details. We are merely using the translated version of his play. The French would never appropriate anything foreign if they couldn’t improve on it,” he quipped.  

“And did they?”

“I can’t really say, except it’s bloodier and bawdier, but that’s par for the course.”

“May I ask you another thing, what was it about opening night? Last time I did get the impression you didn’t want to talk in front of Stirling.”

Conquest regarded the bottle with the yearning eyes of an infant staring at his mother’s bosom.

“The truth is that I felt something was amiss and I decided the sooner we finished rehearsing the better. At the same time, I have accepted money from a benefactor and my reputation is at stake; I might not get another offer is the play is a disaster. You and your friend are convinced that Lord Ruthven is a fabrication, but someone sent me that letter and paid for this production and that someone could ruin me forever.”

 

Sir Astley’s sanctum was not dissimilar to a section of Brookes’ Museum, except for the fact that a considerable sum of money had been spent in giving the gruesome relics a luxurious home: a profusion of black velvets lined the shelves, which shone like the pelt of a panther. The thick glass domes hosting the preserved organs were mounted on bases of dark mahogany and their spotless surfaces gleamed in the soft candlelight. The reek of the preserving agents was drowned by the pungent notes of lavender and bergamot; sprigs of rosemary in gauzy sachets dangled from the many candelabra, like unusual pagan offerings.

“Rosemary, that’s for remembrance,” Sherlock murmured.

The older man smiled in supercilious way and caressed the receptacle containing the part of a cancerous limb.

“The one thing I remember from that tiresome play was that wretched girl’s rambling that ‘we know what we are, but know not what we may be’. That’s the crux of the matter, don’t you see? Until we have learned to disregard the petty rules set for those inferior to us, we shall never find our place in history.”

“Is Lady Cooper part of this history?” the detective ventured to ask, as he gazed at the macabre menagerie with unfeigned admiration.

“My dear wife’s role is to anticipate my wishes and comply with them,” he replied, and the finality of his tone curtailed any possibility of further investigation.

“She has a lovely face,” he only added.

“Beauty is impermanent,” Sir Astley affirmed, “Breeding and character are more valuable; and a talent for suffering.”

“You consider it a talent?”

The surgeon let his gaze fall on Sherlock’s throat, to where his neck-cloth was caressing his Adam’s apple in time with his breathing.

“I had a patient once, a long time ago, who had a growth on his chest and needed an urgent intervention. He was too frightened to submit, so I had no other choice but to restrain him and proceed with the operation. I quenched his suffering with laudanum and subdued his screams with a linen wad, but that awakened a craving in me that I haven’t been able to sate.”

The detective’s heart was pulsing in his temples, but again he tried to control his voice. When he spoke, it was low and hoarse.

“Is that why you experiment on vagrants?” he murmured.

Cooper laughed, but his eyes were as hard as black tourmaline.

“I am not killing those youths, I’m merely costuming angels and, of course, fighting for the cause of progress,” he replied, inserting a finger in the gap between Sherlock’s collar and his palpitating throat.

 

“Have you replaced Celliers with a new actor?” John asked, feeling a little inebriated and wishing even more for his friend’s presence.

“The part belongs to the understudy, unless the boy decides to return.”

“You don’t believe he will; you think he’s no longer alive, don’t you?”

Conquest shrugged, and threw his wig onto a pile of costumes.

“I don’t know what to think! I only want to accomplish what I was paid for. This old place is creaking and groaning, but nowt to be afraid of, I said to myself. And then you and your friend came to ask questions then Davy ups and leaves us in the lurch and then this strange lady turns up.”

John was nodding and humming, his sight a bit blurry and his body pleasantly warmed by the gin. It took him a little while to realise what the other man had just said.

“What strange lady?” he asked, sitting up straight in the uncomfortable chair.

“That’s what I’m saying: she was strange. Her face all covered up with a scarf; for a moment I thought she suffered from some contagious ailment, but when she spoke her voice was cultured and not delirious at all.”

“Yes, but what did she look like?” he doctor insisted.

“Slender, sort of tall, well dressed, I suppose,” Conquest said; he was squinting and scratching his head, trying to evoke the image of the lady in question.

“There was nothing really theatrical in her, aside from the covering of her face… that particular phrase always reminds me of the Duchess of Malfi,” he digressed, “You know the bit where the murdering sibling says ‘Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle.’ Perhaps that’s why she did it, to avoid causing distress; maybe she was exceedingly unpleasant to look at; a scarred countenance, perchance.”

“Yes, yes, but what did she say?” demanded John, whose frustration was made worse by his intoxication.

“It didn’t make any sense,” replied Conquest, unmoved by the doctor’s urgency. “She recited something, perhaps it was a poem; I had a feeling I’d heard it before, but when I asked her about it, she seemed to crumple, like one who’s just received a terrible blow, and left without saying another word. I was too astonished to move and when I did emerge from my reverie, she’d already vanished.”

“The Broken Heart,” John whispered, and oh, how he wanted Sherlock to be present, so that he could share in his excitement.

After saying a quick goodbye to Conquest, he dashed out of the theatre, running towards the main road; his steps echoed in the fog and the distant light of St. Leonard’s was his only beacon.


	25. A Painted Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things may be getting a little intense, you have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The diabolical cleft of the night is a quote from The Passion of New Eve by Angela Carter, a book of gender-bending magnificence.  
> Note 2: The reference to Les Dames Galantes is from the biography of Lady Caroline Lamb. It contains a brief mention of the illustration of the boy being punished. From what I gathered, the book is rather explicit, with descriptions of homosexuality and sadomasochism.

_“Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead_

_Are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood_

_That fears a painted devil.”_

_Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 2_

 

* * *

 

 

They entered the diabolical cleft of the night: the fog was slashed here and there by glimpses of the trunks or branches of trees; the robins and nightingales were silent, but in the undergrowth was the rustling of foxes and the scuttling of mice.

Hemlock, Sherlock remembered, and the scent of it reminded him of his first meeting with John and, later, of their intrusion into St. Mary Axe.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Cooper had said, and he had moved his finger up and down the detective’s neck, grazing the skin with a longish nail. By experience, the detective knew that it would leave a red scratch that would madden his lover. A necessary evil, he mused, but he refused to ponder on what was to come.

The case had started with bodies in a mortuary that had led him into an East End graveyard, and perhaps it was about to end in the cottage of a renowned anatomist.

Death wasn’t the end according to Rowena Light and those of her persuasion, but Sherlock did not really believe in the afterlife, and didn’t even consider it an inviting possibility.

Outside of the prism of his consciousness, a thought that his scintillating mind had neglected to consider, was Lady Caroline Cooper: her absence from the scene, up there in the wings, removed her from the immediacy of the fray, but didn’t entirely exclude her from it.

If the detective had turned round and the sky had been clear, he would have seen her pale face and white dress as she gazed out of the window; there she was all the same, staring into milky nothingness.

“This may seem like a squalid hut to you, but to me it is a palace,” Sir Astley said, as he turned the key inside the lock.

“The intimacy of the setting and the solitude it affords must be precious to such a busy and important man as you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Sit down, my dear, and let me pour you some of my best gin, directly from the Kingdom of the Netherlands,” the surgeon said, with a genial smile.

That Cooper would own a bottle of the same drink John had offered him was a terrible coincidence; forever, the two memories would be intertwined, a trellis rose coiled around a venomous snake.

“You’re too kind,” he replied, readying his palate for the onslaught of a pleasure he didn’t want to feel.

Too many stimuli, he mused; and while it was arduous to sustain his detachment, his otherness, it did give him some consolation; like a cold compress on his brow while in the grasp of a high fever.

Sir Astley handed him a cut-glass cup and a book, whose cover was plain and unmarked: a French publication of the sordid sort, which had to be sold in semi-anonymity.

“Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantôme,” the man said, “Have you ever heard of him?”

When Sherlock shook his head, he continued:

“Les Dames Galantes, the Gallant Ladies, is a most instructive pamphlet on sin, but the illustrations by Daveria are what truly captured my imagination.”

They were side by side on the settee, and the older man reached out to turn the pages of the volume that lay in Sherlock’s lap.

“Here,” he murmured, and there, in the most beautiful, painstaking ink-work, was the drawing of a young naked youth tied to a bedpost and being flogged with the birch by a stout gentleman who was entirely dressed except for the obscene erection jutting out of his breeches.

“Masterful,” the detective rasped, trying in vain to curve his lips into the semblance of a smile.

“It may appear depraved, but what is to be done, if one wants to study the effects of fear, pain and even pleasure on the human brain?”

“But don’t you find that when the means are ungodly, the end will be tainted too?”

Cooper wrapped one of his strong hands around the detective’s bony knee and squeezed as if to reassure him.

“That would be the case if I felt any involvement in the proceedings, but you see how it is quite impossible,” he explained.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t comprehend anything beyond the horror of those fingers digging into his leg.

“They are vagrants, my dear, mere scraps of humanity,” Cooper went on, “It would be demeaning, you see, and furthermore I find carnality obtrusive at the best of times. Real perversions belong to the mind, never to the baser faculties.”

The detective’s tension abated, but he still couldn’t trust his voice not to falter. In order to avoid it, he sipped more of the gin.

“You must have,” _accomplices,_ he wanted to say, “Some trusted acolytes to help you harvest the necessary number of subjects.”

The burly man sighed at being reminded of the misery of his situation.

“One does need a system or the entire structure would tumble down,” he admitted.

“And when these _helpers_ become untrustworthy,” Sherlock suggested.

“Oh, you know how deprived of prime materials our anatomists are,” Cooper said, licking his fleshy lips. “These are but trifles of little interest.”

Those were the cadavers that he’d seen on Stamford’s table, the detective thought, the ones he’d been puzzled about: those who did neither retain any trace of recent burial nor the signs of violent death.

They had been part of Cooper’s evil family and sooner or later, they had to disappear. And that would be Sherlock’s fate too, if he ever agreed to the man’s nefarious scheme.

“I do yearn for a true friend,” the man said, wistfully; “Someone I could confide in and teach.”

“You would need another physician,” the detective said, but his interlocutor shook his head and replied:

“Not in this venture; this only requires a bright intellect and an inquisitive disposition.”

Sherlock debated the difficulty of showing willingness while retaining a modicum of wide-eyed reticence. He swallowed the rest of his drink and his eyes watered; he coughed repeatedly, but when he recovered, his mind was cleared and his senses sharp.

“I have, during my investigations, come across a derelict part of London rife with these lesser forms of life and one youth in particular attracted my attention. At the time, I had already embarked in my research and my interest in the study of phrenology was at its inception. This beggar boy had very fair hair, I’d say almost white, and an exceedingly mature countenance for his young body. I wish now that could have stopped to enquire about his name, upon some pretext. But had I done that, I wouldn’t have had the means to inspect his cranium, or any other of his organs,” the detective recounted, feeling his bowels clench in disgust.

“Oh my darling boy,” Sir Astley exclaimed, taking Sherlock’s hand and planting a wet kiss on its back. “I do perceive in you the very same hunger I had when I first started: that fluttering of the heart and emptiness of the stomach; it’s a form of love, only more intense and long-lasting than that paltry sentiment.”

“I wish we could still find that boy,” the detective replied, plaintively. He did his best to mimic the despondency of a maiden whose best pair of pumps has just disappeared from a shop window.

Unexpectedly, the surgeon went down to his knees and pressed the young man’s hand to his heart, covering it with both of his.

“I do solemnly swear that I will find you the one you want, no matter what,” he said, coal-black eyes burning into Sherlock’s dazed ones.

“And what if he tried to escape?”

“It’s happened only once, because the dose of laudanum was insufficient. I may use hemlock next time,” Cooper said, and that chord inside Sherlock trembled again.

“But that would cause too swift a death,” he objected, keeping his shudder at bay.

“Perhaps you are right; I shall just augment the dose of laudanum,” conceded the surgeon, “For you, my dear, I shall do that.”

 

The faint light in the distance was burning like the sun on the Gold Coast. John had loved it for a short while then hated it for its relentless presence, its ferocious strength in the face of suffering and death. But no, he realised, it wasn’t a sun, it was the halo of a Carcel lamp coming from the church’s graveyard. A tall figure in a dark cloak was there waiting for him, luscious curls escaping from underneath his hat, covering the nape of his white neck. His voice, a mixture of ebony and silver, a dark sky punctured with stars, was calling him; his slender fingers were extended towards him; he only had to grasp them.

“Come in, we were expecting you,” said the woman; her face was covered, but no, she had no face at all, as if her features had been erased or pushed in, leaving behind a flat surface, a rubbery mask.

“Mine eyes dazzle,” he heard someone say, “She died young.”

“The Duchess of Malfi,” he murmured, and turned to tell Sherlock, but he wasn’t there. Where was he? He wondered, and then felt a throbbing pain in his chest, as if his heart had been stabbed with a curved needle that kept prodding and tormenting him.

“We are all waiting for Calantha,” the faceless lady said, guiding him into a salon festooned with veils like cobwebs glinting in the candlelight.

There was a cluster of them, their heads close together, conspiratorially; except that when he moved closer to observe them, they had beaks for faces.

“Who did this to you,” he cried out, or thought he did, but no word came out of his mouth.

In the distance, someone laughed at him, and inexplicably, it started to rain.

Soft and light, it fell on him, but when he looked at his hands they were black with soot.

“Your ash collection, my love,” he whispered and heard a feeble, uncertain melody.

He swiftly turned around, but instead of his beloved friend, he saw a woman covered in blood; this time, he wouldn’t be fooled, he mused; it was all smoke and mirrors, a theatrical mise-en-scene, a trick.

“You’ve returned,” he said, staring into placid blue eyes that had no depth in them, no joy or sorrow.

“You never can,” she replied; toneless yet with a maudlin inflection that he’d probably fashioned out of the meaning of her words.

“But surely, since you are here,” he insisted, and it was then that she tried to touch him. The mere idea horrified him, and he recoiled, but she smiled sadly and looked at his arm, upon which she had laid her hand. His gaze followed hers, and found a spot of red; like an ink-stain it spread and spread; but he had not felt the pressure of her fingers.

 _Out, damned spot!_ The quote came to him together with Mycroft’s sour countenance, his grimacing mouth as it curved around the name of Lady Macbeth. What had he said? _There is always a woman in the picture_ , those had been his words.

And yes, perhaps he had a point: this crimson-clad woman could not be real, even though she had spoken.

“Null, poisonous beauty,” she said, looking at her reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall in between two black-painted windows. The ornate brass frame contributed to the illusion, suspending the image and the moment in time and space; dark and sensual as a Caravaggio, but not as carnal.

“The blood can be washed away,” he told her; words echoing inside his head, dying one by one, like water-starved flowers. Their eyes met in the mirror, or was his face in there too, next to hers, as still as the carvings on a tomb.

But she was no longer red-tinged; no, she was deathly pale, almost translucent; he could see the tracery of veins and capillaries blooming on her throat and bosom; and he remembered Sherlock’s long neck, the delicate knots of his vertebrae, the gentle valleys of his loins; biblical, that’s what his beauty was, worthy of a canticle.

“I have to go to him,” he declared, and he heard a note of supplication in his tone; he had not meant to sound so unsure, so desperate.

“The journey back is long and perilous,” she said, and smiled, and a black cavern opened and swallowed him whole.

 

Sherlock staggered towards the gate; his legs felt leaden and his chest ached; not a figure of speech, but real pain, as if within the girdle of his ribs, the cup of his heart had broken into pointy shards.

You can’t breathe true evil and not be contaminated by it, he realised. He’d left Sir Astley in the dissecting room, pleading a sore head from too much gin; the surgeon had caressed the detective’s back and grasped his waist possessively; he’d only let him go when he heard a noise coming from  the upper regions of the house. He’d smirked and glared and released the young man from his grasp.

 

“Take me home,” he said to Billy, and he wanted the cab to fly on the wings of the night, even as he realised the fog would only make their progress slower.

The boy shook his head and signalled something that had Sherlock in a rage.

“No, he didn’t go anywhere, he said he would wait for me, he wouldn’t betray his promise,” he said.

But Wiggins wouldn’t be convinced and even though he clearly didn’t want to betray his new friend’s confidence, he was compelled to make a clean breast of things.

John had seemingly written on his journal about his future visit and while he was absent, Corisande had not been able to resist and read the last few pages. He seemed inordinately proud of the girl’s ability to read and even of her impudence.

“He may have returned to Baker Street already,” the detective insisted, seething at the thought of that little girl’s effrontery. He was only being contrary out of annoyance; there was no chance that he would head home when Curtain Road was only a half-mile away.

“We shall have words about this,” he chided, as he slammed the door of the cab.

The roads were still as filthy and the stench as terrible, but after the horrors of Cooper’s tales, the squalid landscape and his effluvia only evoked pleasant memories, ingrained as they were within his soul together with John’s presence, his touch and the sound of his voice. _Never again_ , he thought, _will I be alone when it matters most_. They took a short cut to the left of Bishopsgate and in no time were outside the Shakespeare Theatre. Like John before him, he was not in the mood for secrecy, but when he banged at the front entrance, he received no reply; yet he could see a faint light through the keyhole. Since he no longer travelled without his passe-partout, it only took a few attempts before he succeeded in entering the premises.

“Conquest, John,” he shouted, and his voice echoed in the dusty emptiness.

A lit Carcel lamp, close to being consumed, stood on a step, abandoned there like an afterthought; for some reason, it seemed a bad omen; the shards inside his chest pierced him again, taunting him. A man of common sense would not abandon a lamp like this, unguarded: fires had been started from a much weaker spark.

He approached the backstage and thence the stage, and found them both tenantless. The solitude of a theatre with neither actors nor audience was as pathetic as a nursery without an infant. He swiftly headed for the dressing rooms and there, amongst a heap of discarded costumes, lay the man that once had been Benjamin Conquest.

His eyes were open and his mouth stretched into the obscene mimicry of a smile. Suppressing the profanity that had come to his lips, Sherlock bent down and smelled the dead man’s breath: strong gin and something else, a sweetish whiff.

“John,” he shouted, again and again, and his revived limbs, light as feathers, carried him as he inspected the place, finding nothing but the signs of past occupancy.

Before fear and desperation could envelop him completely, he dashed out and gave instructions to Billy: he was to stay there and guard the entrance of the theatre; if anything suspicious happened, he was to hide and observe the goings-on. A flash of rum-hot changed hands and soon after, Sherlock was driving at break-neck speed towards Covent Garden Police Station. Instead of retracing their steps, he chose to pass by St. Leonard’s, no doubt because of sentiment.

As he approached the imposing church, he remembered the impulse that had guided him there that night, and blessed his intuition and his good fortune.

He was glancing in the graveyard’s direction, seeing nothing but the vanishing colonnade that flanked the main building, when he discerned what at fist sight seemed like a bundle of clothes, close to the iron railings.

Recalling the description of the bundle in the well, he stopped and hastened in the direction of the mysterious package. A sense of icy foreboding clutched at his throat when he discerned a pair of boots that he knew only too well.

“John, oh my lord, John,” he cried, and ran towards what he now recognised as the body of his best friend in the entire world.

For the longest instant in his life, Sherlock waited to feel his lover’s pulse beneath his fingers. His hands were cold and the doctor’s skin even more so; his lips were bluish and when he bent down to kiss them, they were as unyielding as marble.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, tears streaming down his face, trickling into his mouth; they tasted bitter, like regret.

At last, a timid beat fluttered in John’s livid neck and the detective found himself laughing hysterically, as he rubbed frantically at his friend’s hands, his chest and thighs, trying to infuse some warmth into his frigid limbs. It was to no avail.

He wrapped one arm around John’s shoulders, slid the other underneath his knees and lifted him up, carrying him away, to safety.   

 


	26. The Shining Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a reluctant patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I did not call Sarah a nurse, because before the advent of Florence Nightingale nurses were solely those who looked after infants.

_“My former hopes are fled,_  
_My terror now begins;_

_I feel, alas! that I am dead_  
_In trespasses and sins._

_I see, or think I see,_  
_A glimmering from afar;_  
_A beam of day, that shines for me,_  
_To save me from despair”_

_The Shining Light (excerpt) – William Cowper_

 

* * *

 

Emetic tartar and tincture of Valerian were the medicaments that Stamford had administered. Sherlock was well aware of the standard cure for opiate poisoning, or he would have had he not been strangled by fear.

The journey to the hospital had been a singular sort of nightmare: whilst terrified that John might die, he had been forced to consign him to the solitude of the cab while he was holding the reins. If only he hadn’t left Billy at the theatre - he berated himself later - what good was it to stand guard to a corpse, when the living were in mortal danger? He could not turn back to the theatre, could not afford even one instant’s delay.

Thus, he was forced to leave John on his own, wrapped in a blanket and still unconscious.

The night was lividly turning into dawn, but still its consumptive fingers wouldn’t relinquish their grasp; he spurred the horse on in a frenzy of despair, catching only snatches of his surroundings and remembering nothing.

Luckily, he knew a fair number of porters and doctors at Barts and thus was able to obtain immediate succour, while they waited for the burly, comforting figure of Mike Stamford to start his daily shift. The physician on duty, a white-haired man named Beaman, brought water bottles to keep John warm and ascertained that he’d indeed been poisoned, but that his situation was not as grave as it seemed.

“He could have frozen afore the poison had its way,” he declared.

Quickly and efficiently, he forced John to expel the contents of his stomach, pumping them out of him. By the end of this process, the ex-soldier had returned to the land of the living, even though his countenance hardly attested to that. He blinked and made a rasping, pitiful sound while his gaze darted around in great alarm, until it rested on Sherlock’s dishevelled, tear-stained form and seemed to evince from it a pleasure that translated into a relaxation of the muscles: he sighed and closed his eyes again. That plunged the detective back into the depths of despair, as he’d perceived in it the signs of imminent expiration.

It was only when he bent down and felt the soft exhale from his lover’s nostrils that he would allow himself to hope for the best.

He waited, tired and hollowed-hearted, until John opened his eyes again, only to see him smile weakly and return to his intoxicated slumber.

In a moment of lucidity, Sherlock remembered about Wiggins and Conquest, and he contrived to send a message to Lestrade, hoping that it would be obeyed to the letter.

Finally, Stamford arrived and after a brief confabulation with Beaman and, he administered another dose of emetic; only after his stomach had been emptied again was the Valerian to be ingested, which would hopefully do its soothing and cleansing work.

“When can I take him home? I don’t want him to languish inside this hovel,” the detective said, glaring at the young girl who was wiping his friend’s face and neck with a wet cloth.

 “You can take him with you as soon as he wakes up,” Mike replied, with an amused smile, “There’s nothing we can do here that a trained girl couldn’t replicate elsewhere. I could lend you Sarah,” he replied, indicating the girl in question.

The detective stood up straight with a fluid motion of his graceful back, like he’d just been challenged to a duel with the throwing down of a gage. Before he could blurt out his anger, Stamford chuckled and patted Sherlock’s bony shoulder.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, “I did not intend to interfere. I am certain you will be perfectly capable of taking care of Watson. All he really needs is rest and plenty of Valerian with warm water. Allow him only bread and liquid foods for another twenty-four hours and don’t let him play the hero.”

“Too late for that,” muttered the detective, whose gaze had not left Sarah’s ministering hands.

 

“Honestly, my dear, I have been in much worse conditions,” John said, as he rejected his friend’s supporting arm and – god forbid – a walking stick; he could stand on his own two legs, thank you very much, as there was absolutely nothing wrong with his limbs. Beside him, Sherlock was pale and shaking from frustration.

He’d never been confronted with a sick lover nor had one single soul he cared for as much as he did for John Watson, and the fact he felt partly responsible for his near-decease enraged him even more. Thus, when they reached the cab, John white as a sheet and Sherlock flushed and overly agitated, the sight of a stranger occupying Billy’s place was the proverbial last straw.

“And who are you, pray tell?” the detective barked at the round-faced, well-appointed young man who regarded them with servile eyes; but of course, he thought ferociously; he waved his hand to signal that they would talk later and helped his friend inside the carriage.

“Damn Mycroft!” he expostulated, once they were on the move. “He can’t help but dig his long, gnarled fingers into every tiny little chink he can find in my armour; and naturally now he will know that I’m even responsible for the death of…” he stopped as he realised that John was not aware of what had happened at the Shakespeare Theatre.

“Whose death?” murmured the older man, in a tone that cut at Sherlock even deeper than if he’d shouted. He fidgeted with the blanket covering his friend’s knees, but the older man stayed his fingers and repeated the question.

“That scheming Corisande wench!” the detective groused, “If only she’d told me of what you had planned, I would made sure that you didn’t...”

“That I didn’t what,” hissed the doctor, “Stay at home and let you risk your life while doing nothing to help you?”

“You made me swear that I wouldn’t keep any secret from you or face danger on my own and you did precisely the same and almost died!” shouted the detective, who had started to tremble for lack of sleep and nutrition, in addition to the all-consuming fury that was burning in his veins.

“Oh my god, of course; if I was poisoned, Conquest was too, but he kept drinking and drinking, so there was no chance he could have been saved. Unless I had stayed with him, but I wanted to come and find you, because I wanted to tell you something; and because I was worried sick!” John chided in a shrill voice.

He was about to ask Sherlock to tell him everything in detail, when he felt the shudder that shook the young man’s frame and his words died in his throat.

“My darling, I’m so very sorry that you had to see me like that,” he whispered, curling one arm around the young man’s waist. Sherlock was facing the other way and John could tell that he was biting his lips in order to stem the flood of tears.

“I couldn’t find your pulse,” the detective rasped, “Your skin felt so cold.”

“I will be all right, I promise,” he said, and lifted one shaky hand too his lips, kissing each finger, softly. It was then that Sherlock’s emotions overflowed and he found himself in John’s arms, being tenderly comforted as if he had been the one who’d just risked his life.

“I’m sorry my dear, I shouldn’t have… I guess it’s a case of physician heal thyself,” John murmured, in between loving caresses, “I shall be more careful next time, I swear.”

The young man nodded frantically and held his friend in a close embrace, hoping that a surfeit of proximity and love would dissolve the malign ghosts of death.

 

“I don’t want you to punish poor Corisande,” said John, as they approached Baker Street. “After all, if it hadn’t been for her, I might not be here with you. And, yes, I know, she could have told you, but she’s just a slip of a girl and you can be quite alarming.”

Sherlock glared and did his best imitation of a haughty peacock.

“Yes, this is exactly what I meant,” the doctor said, smiling.

“We shall see,” conceded the detective, “We do have more pressing things to attend to than dealing with a meddlesome maid. First of all, I will have to send that boy away; I won’t allow Mycroft to spy on us.”

“My love, it was an act of generosity on his part, seeing that poor Billy must have been cold, hungry and scared. I’m certain that we shall find him at Baker Street, waiting for us.”

“I sincerely hope you mean Wiggins.”

“Of course, you adorable fool; why would I wish for your brother to be there when you can hardly stand his presence? I won’t have you behaving like a savage to an honest youth who’s merely earning his crust. You can be unpleasant to Mycroft all you like, he’s a grown man and it won’t bother him.”

Sherlock frowned and sulked, but after a few moments spent in this brown study, he decided he would let nothing spoil the happiness of having John in his arms; until not for the next day or so.

“Well, at least you are being honest,” the doctor said, laughing; _I must have said it out loud_ , Sherlock mused, and joined in his friend’s mirth.

 

John had told Sherlock about Celliers and the mysterious veiled woman, but he hadn’t revealed the troubling images that had characterised his delirium; he was reminded of his friend’s perturbed state after the perusal of that French book – Smarra- and he feared he’d been captured by a similar demon.

He had asked about the detective’s evening with Cooper, but had received only partial replies.

Like he’d foretold, Billy had been waiting for them at Baker Street; Corisande was with him, her gaze darting around like a dizzy bee; she was scared and the young boy was shielding her with a proud and defiant look that moved John more than he could say.

“I’ll be forever grateful,” he said, touching the girl’s bonnet, “Better take this young man with you and stay out of trouble for a while.”

Behind him, Sherlock snorted loudly.

“You should have come to me,” he started, but his lover intervened.

“Come on,” he repeated, at last catching Corisande’s frightened gaze, “There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.”

“Nothing more to say?” hissed the detective, once they were inside their lodgings. “I could write an entire dissertation on the matter! We accepted her under our roof and that’s how she repays us?”

“She’s just a little girl and she couldn’t know how important the information was.”

He groaned for the effort of climbing the stairs, but he'd be damned rather than allow his debility to become an obstacle. Naturally, he couldn’t keep his discomfort hidden from his companion, who immediately started to fuss about tea and toasted bread.

Mrs Hudson had prepared everything, including a hot bath and piles of blankets in the doctor’s room; Sherlock discerned his brother’s meddling touch into all these details, but he stayed silent, or at least contained his indignation and distilled it into vague mutterings.

 

“He chose me to be his accomplice,” the detective whispered, as he washed John’s back with a delicate, circling motion. The lumbar region would be particularly tender, he mused, as the kidneys had been affected.

The scented warmth of the wash-room was acting as a nerve-soother and his confession was facilitated by not being face to face with his lover. He felt him stiffen and pressed a kiss on the scar that decorated one of his shoulder-blades.

“The worst of it was that I understood him, in a way,” Sherlock murmured against John’s skin, once he’d finished his narrative. “When I saw him at work in the dissecting room, surrounded by pickled organs and rare books, I recognised the same compulsion for knowledge, the very same craving to uncover the secrets of nature and mankind.”

The doctor stayed silent, but his heart was beating fast beneath his friend’s touch.

“He showed me the section of a man’s genitalia, and it was fascinating. He will give his name to the membrane that envelops…,” he suddenly halted, feeling John’s stertorous breathing.

“It could have been,” the older man stuttered, unable to finish the sentence. Sherlock understood, and was assailed by the disquieting image of one of the Forty Thieves boys being disembowelled for the advancement of science. He winced and wrapped his arms around his lover’s chest.

“The end never justifies the means,” John said, and turned his head to look Sherlock in the face. “You’ll never cross that line, because you are better than that, better than him.”

“How can you always be so sure about me?” asked the young man, in a breathy tone.

“Because you are on the side of the angels,” replied the doctor, following the statement with a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s bitten-off lips. He then retreated slightly to contemplate the vision of his boy, wet and messy and scrubbed pink: if he hadn’t felt so damn frail, he would have bent him over the bath tub and made him scream.

“And, like I told you before, you even look like one,” he said, and the blush that painted the young man’s cheeks served as partial consolation.

 

Lestrade came to visit them late in the evening and his tired face told them the story of his day. He was offered a stiff drink and a smoke, which he accepted with gratitude.

“Doctor Watson, I’m extremely glad to find you in good health,” he said, firmly shaking the doctor’s hand.

Ignoring Sherlock’s protests, John was lying down on the drawing room’s divan that a solicitous Mrs Hudson had moved closer to the fireplace. He wouldn’t behave like an invalid, not when there was a dangerous murderer on the loose.

“Mycroft told me about Benjamin Conquest and the anomalous manner in which he was hired to stage the production at the Shakespeare Theatre. I haven’t yet had the time to find out the details, but it seems that Mr Conquest’s family was his work and therefore this would be yet another case when the victim has no relations to mourn his passing.”

“It would have been the same for me,” said John, staring at the roaring flames, “My sister died when I was fifteen and she was all the family I had left.”

“Your situation is quite different,” the Inspector replied, calmly.

“Yes, quite,” the doctors said, smiling at his lover, who was lighting a cigar to hide his embarrassment.

“It was an overdose of tainted opiates, same us Brookes’, but mixed with the gin. We found some residues in the bottle and the glasses. You drank a smaller amount, I take it.”

“Yes, it was too strong for me and I wanted to stay sober, unlike that poor wretch. Have you spoken to the actors?”

“Yes, well, a group of them turned up for rehearsals, but from what I gathered the two principals have disappeared.”

“I know about Celliers, but what of Stirling?” asked John, scratching his head.

“We have been to his lodgings, but it appears that they have been vacated,” Lestrade replied. “Do you have any idea as to why this imaginary Lord Ruthven would want to murder an entire theatrical company that was about to perform a play of his choice?”

“I may have entertained a couple of conjectures, but” the detective said, holding his hand up as if to defend himself from further questions, “I need time to think it through properly. My mind hasn’t been functioning in its usual way, not since last night.”

“All I ask is that you don’t keep important information from me,” said Lestrade, “This is not the case of a dope fiend mistaking the dose, but a proper murder investigation.”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” protested Sherlock. “I nearly lost… but it’s no use dwelling on it; we shall solve this mystery and to this purpose John needs to recover his full bodily strength as we have been invited to a masquerade.”

“Yes, of course… wait, what?” asked Lestrade.

The detective winked at him and, without giving him any further explanations, accompanied him to the door.

 

John had been tempted to simply remain in the drawing room and sleep on the divan, until he’d realised - through the haze of tiredness and lack of substantial food - that Sherlock wasn’t merely staring at the fire or lost in thought; the quality of his silence and the minute twitching of his fingers as they flicked the ash off the cigar spoke of preoccupation and uncertainty.

“I will need to wake up for another dose of tincture,” he said, knowing the detective would see through his advances, but suspecting it wouldn’t matter, not in this case.

“Your bed has ample room for both of us without risking unintended symptoms of suffocation,” Sherlock replied, primly. Trust him to invoke the gods of rationality when his pride was under threat, John mused, smiling inwardly.

When underneath the mountains of blankets that their landlady had provided, the accidents of the previous night seemed to unravel, at last, in all their ominous bleakness. John gathered the detective in his arms, uncaring of the effort it cost him; he breathed the familiar scents of tobacco and sandalwood and was struck by how right it felt, how fateful and undeniably perfect.

“Even as I lay there half-dead, my last thought was for you,” he whispered in his lover’s ear.

“It was mere chance that I took the long way rather than the short-cut,” Sherlock murmured, “I wanted to see St. Leonard’s,” he added, certain that John would understand his reasons.

“As I left poor Conquest, with every intention of coming to tell you about the Broken Heart lady, I saw the church from a distance and it seemed like the only light in the darkness.”

He caressed the detective’s frowning face, pressing his thumb across the young man’s delectable lower lip.

“We are supposed to rest,” Sherlock protested, biting down on the finger.

“I love you, more than anything in the entire world,” John replied, smiling; he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody of his lover’s breaths lull him to sleep.


	27. Diadem of Thy Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut (mind the tags) and possible scenarios.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Rosarium philosophorum or Rosary of the philosophers is recognised as one of the most important texts of European alchemy. Originally written in the 16th century, it is extensively quoted in later alchemical writings. It first appeared in print as the second volume of a larger work entitled De alchimia opuscula complura veterum philosophorum, in Frankfurt in 1550

_“Sublime with fire, until the spirit which thou wilt find in it goeth forth from it, and it is named the bird or the ash of Hermes. Therefore saith Morienus: Despise not the ashes, for they are the diadem of thy heart, and the ash of things that endure.”_

_Rosarium – part of De Alchemia Opuscula complura veterum philosophorum_

 

* * *

 

It was the dead of night.

A wave of fear submerged John; it crashed against his sternum, depriving him of air; there was no light; he was lost and lonely, again. He waited for the beaked creatures to reappear, for Calantha to materialise in her crimson-crusted robe, but the only voice he heard was Sherlock’s.

“John, please open your eyes,” he said, and his pale hand was holding a glass filled with a liquid that shone in the intermittent glimmer that came from the dying fire in the grate.

“Yes,” he replied, but he was still afraid lest it was all a dream and his lover’s form were to be transmuted into a terrifying mask.

“You have to take your potion,” the young man insisted, sitting on John’s side of the bed.

The doctor blinked and the room disappeared and came to life again, yet his lover was still there, so he finally accepted the truth of this apparition.

After he’d swallowed the liquid, and they were again embracing underneath the bed-covers, he was possessed by the vision of that other world that he’d inhabited the night before, that interstice between life and death.

“Who do you think the veiled lady was?” he asked, wishing for the nightmare to evaporate.

“You know who she was,” the detective replied. “It is not always easy to leave the past behind,” he added, cryptically.

“We never really do succeed,” said John. “It is inscribed in our very nature, like the colour of our hair.”

“I know you won’t tell me what you saw in your intoxicated twilight, but I suspect you already own the key to the mystery.”

“Something Mycroft mentioned; that there’s always a woman in the picture; like Lady Macbeth, he said.”

At the mention of his sibling, the young man winced.

“They shall not prevail,” he whispered, but John had succumbed to the lure of sleep.

 

Changeable, almond-shaped eyes, shell-like lids, gazing up at him from beneath thick lashes; why was Sherlock’s visage so far and yet the pleasure so piercingly close?

Suddenly awake, as if emerging from a water entombment, he felt the young man’s tongue, wet and sinuous, caress the tip of his erection; he stared and gasped; the detective returned his gaze and waited for permission. John gave it by brushing a lock of curls from his lover’s cheek. Immediately, he was consumed by heat, devoured with the single-mindedness of the desperation. His hand reposed on Sherlock’s head and the boy indicated what he wanted with a flicker of his eyelids. When John gave a sharp tug, his lover growled and became like a beast in the presence of carrion: he licked and nibbled, sucked and feasted, until there was nothing left but ecstasy, saliva and seed.

 

“Come up here, I want to kiss you,” John gritted out, and at once Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt for what he’d just done.

He had not been able to rest ever since their conversation; his mind had penetrated into the obscurities of the case: the odd coincidences, the main characters, the secondary figures and the unknown entities that still lurked in the shadows. He’d been nothing but a coagulation of thoughts until his body, almost unbeknownst to him, had reacted to his companion’s proximity.

In his agitated state, John had partially divested himself, while the detective had already removed his nightshirt, feeling too warm for clothing.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d slid down and taken what was rightfully his.

“I shouldn’t have,” he apologised, but was reduced to silence, as his lover drank his words directly from his mouth; at the same time, a hand closed around his tumescence which was already half-ripe before the stroking started.

“Oh lord, yes, yes,” he pleaded, and pushed into John’s hand, bucking wildly as the pressure intensified.

“You love it like this,” the blond man said, in a thick, strained voice; Sherlock nodded and the fist pumped even faster; he felt he couldn’t stand it any longer yet he was suspended, dangling as if from a tense rope.

“Soft bud,” John whispered, and contrary to the sweet words, he pinched and grazed the nipple he’d just lapped at, and with a scream, Sherlock’s pleasure rose and spilled over.

 

“What if I had died and this were all a dream?”

Musky and sweaty, the detective was still vibrating with the fury of his release, chest heaving beneath John’s protective fingers.

“I thought you didn’t believe in the afterlife and all that rot.”

“Maybe I want to, because of what I saw; the vividness of it,” the blond man hesitated, seeking the right words. “There was a sense of imminence, of being on the verge of some momentous revelation. Your absence was more real to me than the presence of the other odd creatures, even more of the vermilion woman; and the dust… I even dreamt of your ash collection.”

“Ash is what we shall eventually become,” said the young man, with ineffable sadness.

“But don’t you see? Ashes can be scattered, but they never fully disappear and one day the world will be made of them.”

“Like you said to me once, I’d rather have you here, flesh and blood, rather than a mountain of soot.”

The doctor laughed and pressed a kiss on his lover’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’m not convinced of that; after all, you do have a passion for inanimate objects and ascetic contemplation. I, on the other hand, need some form of earthly sustenance or I will just swoon like a maiden.”

Sherlock schooled his features to express the full extent of his disdain.

“Tedious,” he sighed, but swiftly darted out of bed and went to look for food.

 

“Sir Astley thinks he’s above good and evil, doesn’t he?” John commented, as he drank his egg’s yolk. He still felt light-headed, but not as devoid of energy,

“The death of Rowland Brookes didn’t mean anything to him,” agreed Sherlock. “It was obvious that he considered him and his ilk as inferior creatures and that Victor’s article would have surely bolster that conviction.”

“He didn’t mention it, I gather.”

The detective sniggered.

“It would be below him to admit to such human frailties as perusing an inferior rag. Some of the other newspapers have picked up the story though,” he added, showing John the evidence of his statement: both the Times and the Gazette had it on their front page.

“And what about your profession, doesn’t he suspect you of double-dealing?”

“My profession is not well-known to the majority of people in this city. I insist on my successes being ascribed to the New Police, as I don’t like publicity. In his eyes, I’m merely a willing disciple; thus is the vanity of omnipotence.”

“Did you see his wife?”

“The evanescent Lady Caroline?” said Sherlock. “No, but there was a commotion, a noise coming from upstairs and the distraction that ensued allowed me to make my escape.”

“Did he touch you?” the blond man asked, pretending to be interested in his slice of buttered bread.

“Yes,” replied the detective, “But it was nothing compared to his brazen arrogance, his indifference to the fate of those he wants to sacrifice. He vowed to find Silver Robbie for me and I’m certain he will.”

He shuddered and immediately his hand captured by his friend’s.

“I wish we could do something for that wretched woman,” sighed John. “I suppose he keeps her prisoner in her bedchamber, like some princess in a fairytale.”

The detective tilted his head to the side, a strange glimmer in his eyes that his companion couldn’t decipher.

“This entire story is rather like a tale, isn’t it? Writers and narratives abound: Lady Vere’s florid prose, Smarra, the Vampyre…”

“The French play on which Conquest’s production was to be based…”

Sherlock took a surreptitious bite off John’s bread and frowned.

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes, why, isn’t it true?”

“Not really,” the young man declared, “The play was written in English by an anonymous writer and was serialized in the New Monthly Magazine. Only later was it translated into French.”

John’s eyes widened; he took a sip of tea and pondered on the information.

“I’m quite certain Conquest didn’t lie, so he must have simply been in the dark about the true origins of the text. I don’t quite see why that would be important. I trust you have compared the original to the script.”

“They are quite similar, but that’s not the salient point.”

“What is?”

“The identity of the writer, obviously,” replied the detective, eyeing the crispy bacon with annoyed concupiscence. “Several of the stories the Magazine publishes are anonymous and there would be no point in questioning them about the identity of the authors; I know this for a fact, because I have tried in the past. In the course of a robbery case, I suspected the culprit to have written a confession disguised as prose; I went to Mr Colburn, but he wouldn’t help. He’s a stubborn mule: he claimed his role was like that of the priest in the confessional.” 

“Colburn? But isn’t he Lady Vere’s publisher?” wondered John, setting his cup on the table with a bang. “Wait, why didn’t you tell me? But most importantly, why didn’t you ask her?”

He looked in Sherlock’s eyes and did not like what he saw in them.

“Please, don’t tell me you suspect Lady Vere of orchestrating the disappearance of her own sister, together with the pantomime of a fake theatre play and capped by a healthy dose of vampyres! And for what, for money?” he shouted, “But surely she has enough of that already!”

“We only have her word for that. Her only relatives have departed for Italy, her family was in Lincolnshire, but they are all deceased. They house they lived in is a ruin. If we were to contact her solicitors, I’m sure everything would appear all right and above board. Besides, it may be more complicated than pure and simple greed.”

“You could ask for Lestrade’s help, we could travel to Horncastle, but I can’t really believe,” said John, too astonished to articulate the rest of the sentence.

“You don’t want to believe it because you like her.”

“She wouldn’t have come to you if she’d done away with her sister,” the doctor said, clenching his jaws. “What would be the purpose, when she could have kept it secret? You said it yourself, she has no family.”

“A clever scheme,” Sherlock explained. “Think on it: the girl disappears but after a while her body is found at the bottom of a well or perhaps never; Lady Vere is the beneficiary of her fortune, as she’s the next of kin. What do you think would happen? People would talk, and even the literary milieu with their loose morals would frown and look at her askance. But what if she’d done her very best to find her missing sibling and hired a detective for the purpose? Those same people will praise her and commiserate with her when the search proves fruitless.”

“Although unlikely in the extreme, I may accept the possibility of this hypothesis, but I do not understand why she would involve Conquest in her dastardly scheme and construe the entire Lord Ruthven rigmarole. While the first part of the plan is entirely logical, the second is steeped in madness and vengefulness.”

“Lady Macbeth starts out as a calculating, ambitious wife but soon plunges into insanity,” suggested the Sherlock, who had finally succumbed to the lures of the fragrant meat.

“Perhaps we really should travel to Lincolnshire: I long to find out about more about Lady Vere’s family and their connection with Lady Cooper,” insisted John.

 “Caroline Jane Glenarvon; her father was Edmund Glenarvon, the youngest son of an old family of landowners; besides being the local physician, he was also a gambler who lost everything except for the property in Horncastle. He died in mysterious circumstances; well, when I say that, I mean that I think there’s more to it than what it was reported in the papers. He drowned in the river Bain when his rowing boat capsized.”

“Why did Sir Astley marry a woman he doesn’t care for if she had neither capital nor title? Surely he wasn’t the one Glenarvon lost his money to; he may be many things, but Cooper surely is no gambler,” said John, as he poured two more cups of tea.

“They had one thing in common: their profession,” the detective replied.

“We should talk to Lady Caroline, I should think” the older man said; he stood up too quickly for his still enfeebled legs and had to grasp the table for support.

“You are not to overtire yourself,” ordered his friend, “Besides, I’d rather not force the collapse of a carefully constructed edifice.”

John flushed and his eyes darkened in anger.

“Pay say I’m mistaken,” he roared, “That you are not telling me that you knew what was about to happen and you let Conquest risk his life? That you played with that poor man’s existence and would not care for his demise as long as it didn’t affect either of us?”

Sherlock reacted the opposite way: his face became a marble carving, his lips a thin white line.

“I had been on my own for a while before I met you,” he said, with icy composure, “And sometimes I do rely on this solitude and the silence that comes with it; it doesn’t mean that I do not trust you and it most certainly does not signify that I would let an innocent man die. You must understand that a great part of my work is to do with deductions, suppositions which need to be verified and that, in the absence of a victim, a crime, no matter how real to us, will only be an imaginary construct in the eye of the law.”

“What absence are you talking about? People have died!” shouted John.

“Nobody cares about beggar boys and dope fiends, my darling; we may find the truth hard to stomach, but we have to swallow it all the same.”

“You know what happened to Emma Clairmont, and you have for a while,” the doctor snarled.

“No, that is not what I said,” hissed the detective. “I have devised several possible solutions to the mystery, and they need to be either proved or disproved. We have to play the game to the bitter end, my darling, and be more cunning than them.”

“But we haven’t been,” insisted John, nastily. “We have failed Benjamin Conquest and we have failed Tom Trader. And we still don’t know what Life in Death is. At the very least, we should tell Lestrade to arrest Sir Astley directly.”

“On what charge?” asked a glowering Sherlock, “Having purchased suspicious cadavers? He has influence and is friends with men higher up than a mere police Inspector. We don’t have any proof of his misdeeds. My word isn’t worth more than his; his lawyers could suggest that I instigated the affair to gain notoriety. He would win the case, I would be discredited and nothing would stop him from returning to his pursuits; we have to catch him in the act.”

“This is most infuriating!” John said, and tried to stand up again.

“Sit down!” bellowed his lover, receiving a deathly stare in return.

“We should look for Stirling and Celliers, scour the graveyards and the slums at Nova Scotia Gardens,” the doctor insisted, “Anything, rather than this infernal inaction.”

Sherlock scowled at the implied criticism and would have uttered a scathing retort but for his friend’s capitulation.

“I’m being unfair,” the latter said, suddenly aware of his lack of stamina and the consequent uneasiness of his friend. “But I can’t quite think of that poor man and his bedraggled wig without feeling that we should have done more to save him; that we could have predicted.... that I could have,” his voice broke, “If only I could go back…”

The detective stood up and went to place his hands on John’s shoulders, fingers digging into the wool-clad muscles.

“That we can never do, my love,” he said, bending down to place a kiss atop the man’s head. “I fear there’s worse to come, but perhaps it’s only the aftermath of your ordeal that has left this taste of cinders in my mouth.”

The doctor turned to wrap his arms around the young man’s waist, leaning close, face buried in Sherlock’s silk dressing gown. He inhaled the scent that emanated from him, pungent and manly, yet still redolent of the savagery of late boyhood and was once again invaded by the intense elation of possession.

“We never went back to St. Leonard's’ graveyard nor did we go to Holywell Mount,” he said, voice muffled by the cloth. “Perhaps we could go for a quick visit, nothing too strenuous.”

He felt the tight muscles of his lover’s abdomen twitch and ripple as the young man shook in silent laughter.

“What shall I do with you my dear, when you cannot be prevailed upon to rest even after you nearly lost of your life?” Sherlock chided, with a smile in his voice.

“You know you and I are alike in this,” quipped John, while he rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric, “Pretending otherwise is only deception on your part.”

“All right,” the detective conceded, “But I’d rather not waste time on a fool’s errand and visit the Old Red Lion tavern instead.”

“Yes, of course!” exclaimed John. “We should warn that poor boy of Cooper’s intentions and offer him our protection. Do you happen to know if he can shoot?”

The detective pursed his lips in what his friend decided was a most delectable pout.

“You are not thinking of lending him your pistol, I hope,” he said, acidly.

“Why, are you perchance the custodian of my weaponry?”

“I should hope that, as your associate and friend, I would have a say on this matters.”

“And what is your say?”

“I suggest the purchase of a brand new pistol, or any other weapon the boy might prefer,” drawled the detective, in his best public school accent. “Although I am quite confident that he won’t need our help in this matter; he’s a professional thief, after all.”

John undid the sash of his lover’s dressing gown and nosed at the bare skin that emerged as the garment gaped open.

“You don’t like me to share my pistol,” he said, with a lewd, amused smile.

The detective threw him a scathing look, but did not deny the allegation: John’s military paraphernalia was his and his only; Sherlock would not let him part with them, unless it was a matter of life and death.


	28. Terra Damnata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock answers THE question and disaster strikes... again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Hydriotaphia Urn Burial by Thomas Browne is also quoted at the start of Edgar Allan Poe's The Murders in the Rue Morgue.
> 
> Note 2: Numerous fires throughout the 18th & 19th century in Edinburgh,culminating with several fires in 1824, resulted in the formation of the Edinburgh Fire Engine Establishment in October 1824. It consisted of 80 part time fire fighters who had building trade experience. Their Chief Officer, James Braidwood had a new way of tackling fires in that his crews would be highly trained in entering buildings and fighting the fires at their seat. 
> 
> Note 3: Watling Street was quite close to Saffron Hill

_“What virtue yet sleeps in this terra damnata and aged cinders, were petty magic to experiment. These crumbling relicks and long fired particles superannuate such expectations; bones, hairs, nails, and teeth of the dead, were the treasures of old sorcerers.”_

_Hydriotaphia Urn Burial (Excerpt) – Thomas Browne_

 

* * *

 

 

John had the rare pleasure of watching Billy as he surrendered to a fit of silent giggles when they suggested Silver Robbie should be provided with a weapon.

“Alright,” Sherlock cautioned the boy, feigning annoyance, “No need to indulge in mockery.”

“What did he say?” asked the doctor, once the cab was juddering on its way to Saffron Hill.

“Only that his friend has a coffer filled with knives, daggers, pistols and other memorabilia.”

“Yes, well, they are robbers; that’s what they do.”

“It’s not the only thing they do, my dear, as you are aware. Cooper may be using them for his dreadful purposes, but he’s not the first one to seek sexual encounters with young boys, nor will he be the last.”

John grimaced, his stomach churning in disgust; the lack of proper sustenance always made him grumpy, but because of their predicament, fury was simmering just below his surface, ready to spring out at the first sign of peril or discord.

“How loathsome to imagine the hunger and privations that force them to sell their bodies,” he spat out. “Especially when people such as Sir Astley consider them like mere trinkets, to be used and discarded when they are no longer needed.”

The young man took John’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“We can’t change the world,” he whispered.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t try,” replied his friend, bullishly. “This may not be the reason of your calling, but it can be the motive of mine.”

“I thought it already was,” observed the detective, fondly. “You are a doctor, first and foremost.”

“Perhaps it’s no longer who I am,” John said, clear-eyed and sure of himself. “I can’t fathom being away from you when you pursue your cases; being at the operating table whilst you are within the clutches of some ruffian…” his voice broke and he shook his head, as if to dismiss the image he had conjured up.

“There are quieter times, when my detecting work is solely intellectual and does not involve violence or mischief.”

The blonde man laughed and bestowed a kiss on Sherlock’s slender wrist.

“I shall endeavour to take advantage of those blissful moments and spend them mending bones and sewing up wounds,” he replied; and as he mused about their future life together, he understood that it was as it was always meant to be: perched between safety and risk, on a tightrope between tradition and daring. Ever since he could remember, he’d told himself he wanted the stability of a family – the one he’d never had as a child – and an esteemed profession; and every time he achieved his goal, he found that he yearned for danger and for that elusive spark that could set him alight. With Sherlock, he could achieve that seemingly impossible balance: the appearances of a normal life coupled with the thrill of peril and of underlying violence.

As for the personal aspect of things, he’d found what his body and soul wanted: carnal subjugation linked with a cutting brilliancy of mind.  Yes, he smiled, that would suit him admirably well.

“Why are you simpering?” asked his lover, somewhat irritably. And that too, John realised: he loved also the snappish, unruly side of this man, and his occasional bouts of ire that were subsumed by the deep sensitivity that, at times, veered towards tenderness and delicate affection.

“I was thinking of the future,” he replied, stroking his thumb on Sherlock’s palm, in lazy circles. The young man’s eyes were watching intently, his throat constricted.

“I was wondering what this hand would look like with a golden trinket adorning one of its fingers,” John said, and he was taken unawares by his own words, that had escaped from a fold of his subconscious, unmediated by reflection.

“I never… you didn’t…,” the young man babbled, his eyes even more focussed on the progress of his lover’s digit over his now throbbing pulse.

“My dear, I did not mean to entrap you into any rash admission,” the doctor said, mentally cursing his abysmal sense of timing, “It was a flight of fancy, a hope or even a dream, if you prefer. I have heard that wedlock between gentlemen will become legal after the spring, as I am sure you are well aware, so it must have been…”  
And there, at last, his embarrassment was quenched at the source, as Sherlock kissed him forcefully on the lips.

“Yes,” the detective murmured after the long, passionate embrace subsided, “Yes, yes,” he repeated, closing his eyes and savouring the glorious syllable that would unite him to the man he loved, for the rest of their lives.

John took the young man in his arms and poured sweet endearments into his ear, while Sherlock received them with a dazed, awestruck expression that only elicited even more worshipful avowals. To both men, the world in those instants truly appeared as the majestic seat of all honeyed delights.

Like all fey interludes, theirs was fated to last but a brief moment and suffer the brutish interference of reality.

 

The first intrusion was the acrid whiff of smoke. At first, John believed Billy was perchance puffing on a  pipe, but soon the atmosphere was thick with fumes, with the unmistakable smell of burning wood and the sweetish, horrid stench of charred flesh.

They emerged from the carriage to find the wretched hovels of Saffron Hill devoured by the flames which were leaping and licking and roaring like wild beasts fleeing from their cages; the rotting thatched roofs had taken to it first, in utter immolation.

“Billy, don’t you dare move from here!” John shouted at the boy who had jumped off the cab’s box and was about to dash into the bowels of the inferno.

The lad stabbed at the air with frustrated gestures, his eyes flashing with the rage of his impotence.

“We’ll see to it,” said Sherlock, laying his hands on the boy’s shoulders and squeezing, “But it won’t be helpful if we have to worry about you as well.”

Beneath his fingers, Billy’s body was wracked with tremors and his eyes, wide with fear, were already wet with tears.

“Please,” the detective insisted, searching for his gaze and holding it in mute entreaty. The boy nodded once then looked at John, asking for his help.

“Hurry up to Watling Street and give this to the fire officers,” the doctor said, handing him a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a quick note.  Surely the fire engine would already be too late, but at least it would prevent the fire from spreading farther afield.

Once the boy had left on his errand, the two men ran towards the epicentre of the fire, which they suspected had already invaded Field Lane. Along the way, they were pushed aside by people fleeing, their blackened faces contorted in their effort to breathe, their patched-up garments singed and sooty; some were stampeding in the opposite direction, carrying buckets of greenish water from the Fleet; above all was the deafening din of screams and groans that pierced the fog of acrid smoke. John stumbled upon a bucket and finding that it still held an inch of water at the bottom, dipped his handkerchief into it and urged Sherlock to do the same. “Press that against your nose and mouth,” he commanded, then decided that to have their hands free the best course was to tie the cloths over the lower part of their faces.

“Like bandits,” he quipped, to hide his distress. The young man smiled wanly then did as instructed.

Armed with the bucket, they dashed towards the ditch to refill it, only to find it crawling with people and various objects which had been relinquished from the blaze; the spectacle was not unlike that of a ritual bathing in a holy river, except for the stunned look on those ravaged faces and for the misery of their predicament.

After they finally got to the water, they turned into Field Lane whose second-hand clothes shops, predictably, were rapidly turning into a pile of incinerated debris. They knew they couldn’t provide sufficient help until the fire engine arrived, and by then there would be little left to save.

Without talking, they headed for the Old Red Lion tavern, but when they approached the rickety bridge, they found it had collapsed under the excessive weight of the fleeing people. On the other side of the Fleet, the pub was only just being licked up by the flames that had spread from the nearby buildings; there was still hope it could be salvaged, if they could recruit enough vagrants to help them.

Wading in that filthy slop up to their waist, they entreated and cajoled until they convinced a motley crew of men to help them in their endeavour. Buckets, basins and pitchers were filled with water and by the time they emerged from the canal and approached the tavern, they felt confident of their success.

What they had failed to take into account, or at least John had, intent as he was in thinking only about the tunnels that ran underneath the tavern, was that the pub was obviously filled with flammable liquids and that once the blaze reached the casks of ale and the vats of gin, the entire building would be nothing but a giant powder keg. Luckily for them, the explosion happened when they were still close to the water and, under a cascade of burning masonry and glass splinters, they jumped back into the Fleet.

A chorus of screams and imprecations rose from the crowd littering the nearby alleys and the distant noise of a siren told them that Billy had accomplished his task.

“We shall have to get into the tunnels by another entrance,” John said, and Sherlock nodded, even as he coughed into his blackened handkerchief. They both looked a sight, with their sodden, dirty clothes and soot-smeared faces; the detective’s mane had turned into a dusty nest for bits of wood and other detritus.

They asked around and finally a boy, probably one of those who’d been present at Tom’s burial, offered to help them.

As they were walking along scorched alleys that resembled Pompeii, the lad, a grave-faced urchin with a shaven head and pock-marked cheeks named Arthur narrated what had happened.

“It weren’t an accident,” he said, tentatively first and then more forcefully. “No sir, it weren’t. I were peddling some of my stuff at Fagan’s when I sa’r him.”

“Who was it that you saw?” asked John; only he had been too impetuous and the lad clammed up like the proverbial oyster.

“What did he look like?” enquired the detective, after a moment.

“Skinny, scruffy-like, doped-up eyes,” the boy said.

“Do you know him?”

“Not know him,” Arthur replied, with a tone that suggested he thought Sherlock was an idiot. Despite everything, John couldn’t contain a smile when, as predicted, a deep furrow formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

“But I has seen him afore. He pays lads for errands.”

This time both men stayed silent, waiting for the boy to continue.

“Mangy dogs and cats, that’s what he wants and pays well enough. I never agreed to it, seeing as many a lad hasn’t been seen back at Saffron Hill after they gone with him. I asked him about it once and he laughed, manic-like, but his eyes were shifty; I know he were lying. Here,” he said, and hunkered down to remove the rubble that covered a rusted trapdoor in the pavement between the wreckage of two buildings.

For the next half-hour or so, they followed Arthur as he led them through the maze of tunnels underground, until they heard voices and, finally reaching the vaults they had visited not that long ago, they came upon an assembly of boys, huddled together probably in order to derive strength and courage from one another.

“We can’t find Robbie,” one lad immediately cried out, but fell silent when he caught sight of the two intruders.

“They are Tom’s friends,” Arthur explained, and that was sufficient for the noise to recommence, even louder than before.

“We need to know the name of the man you were talking about,” said John, as he removed the fabric that still gagged his mouth.

“The dogs feller,” the boy explained to the others, who nodded and erupted again in a chorus of discordant voices.

“Does anyone know that ruffian’s name?” thundered Sherlock.

“I know it,” a carrot-top nipper shouted above the racket. “I were hiding in the carriage with them boys once and one of the fellers at Nova Scotia called out to him: ‘hey Will’, he says, that’s how I found out.”

“And what happened at Nova Scotia?” asked John.

“I’m not sure, because you see, Sir, I got scared when I heard them dogs barking and I did a runner.”

“Were you in a particular place when that happened: a street or a field, for instance?” the detective enquired.

“Aye, Sir,” he replied, then held out his hand; Sherlock sighed and placed a coin in its palm. “Thank you Sir,” he continued, licking his rosy lips as he contemplated his recompense. “That were what them call the Mount.”

“Holywell Mount!” exclaimed John.

“William Crompton,” added his companion. “They surely work for Cooper, although they may not know be aware of it. He probably employs some go-betweens. I doubt he would deal with the likes of Crompton and Whackett directly.”

“Well done,” John said to the nipper. “And what is your name?”

“That’s ginger,” Arthur replied, evidently annoyed that a younger child would get a tip while he was still empty-handed. The doctor saw right through him and put a sovereign in his hand.

“I’m Michael,” the ginger boy replied, piqued that his soubriquet had been revealed by someone else.

“Well, Michael, can you tell us anything more?” 

The lad shook his head and the doctor patted him on the shoulder, smiling at the dejected expression on his round, freckled face.

“Would you tell us what you know about Robbie’s whereabouts?” the detective asked of the crowd. “We just want to be sure he’s not hiding anywhere in Saffron Hill; he might be hurt or even unconscious, and we won’t leave here until we are sure that he’s really gone.”

“He wouldn’t leave without coming back to the tunnels,” replied a boy older than the average; he was holding onto a Meerschaum pipe like he was guarding a treasure, and Sherlock realised it was Robbie’s. “Not without this.” His speech was more cultivated than his friends’ and there was such world-weariness in his gaze that gave John the shivers. They took him and Arthur to one side, and left the others to get on with their chattering.

“Name’s Jules, I’m Robbie’s right-hand man.”

“We didn’t see you at Tom’s burial,” argued the detective.

“I was entertaining a client, so to speak,” he replied, defiantly, but crumpling visibly when he noticed the sympathetic warmth in John’s gaze. “I was away for a while. Sometimes they hire me for the night, but that time I had been away for a fortnight. Robbie’s told me about your plans. He was watchful: he never went out unless it was with one of us older guys, and he always had a knife or a cudgel on him. The only way they could get him was to take him by surprise.”

“Crompton set fire to the place,” hissed the doctor, wishing Sherlock had given him real absinthe that night at the Birdcage.

“There wasn’t the only reason, John,” said his friend, “They wanted the boys to lose their homes and their livelihood, so that they would become more amenable to the lures of a handful of gold coins. By having to find a new place to live they will become an easier target.”

“Where was Crompton when you saw him?” the detective asked Arthur.

“Just outside Fagan’s; he were running like, and he were carrying a tank. I says to myself ‘he’s here to make mischief, that one’, and sure enough there was people a-screaming and Saffron Hill went up in smoke.”

“He must have had enough combustibles to start a few fires here and there,” commented John. “The place being made mostly of wood and packed with clothing items and the like, there was only one way it was going to end.” He tried not to think about the poor wretches who hadn’t made it to safety, those too old or weak to run, those asleep or stupefied by drinks and opiates: the heavens that has smiled down on him earlier in the carriage were showing their nastier side.

“Robbie would never hide if he knew his people were in danger,” said Jules. “That Crompton fellow must have ambushed him as he ran outside to lend a hand. There’s a shop which sells neck-cloths and hats just around the corner from Fagan’s; he’s friends with the shop boy. I’m sure he must have gone there.”

“We have to leave immediately,” said Sherlock and John was about to walk back into the tunnels when Jules grabbed him. “I want to come with you,” he said, firmly. The doctor looked at his companion: the young man nodded, although his eyes immediately went to the fingers that were digging into his future husband’s arm. John smiled and freed himself from the grasp, delicately. “Alright, but do as you’re told or you may get us and your friend into ever more trouble,” he said to Jules. The lad blinked in assent: he had a pair of truly remarkable violet eyes, which must have attracted the attention of many a gentleman, but John believed nothing could ever compare with the mutable fascination of his lover’s gaze; he took a moment to again savour the happiness of being betrothed to the detective and the knowledge that he held that untouched heart in his hands.

“Let’s go,” he commanded, and the three of them dove  into the labyrinth that would take them back to the scorched desert that had been Saffron Hill.


	29. The Opium of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen, of a moderately gruesome nature.  
> You have been warned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Most quotes are from Hydriotaphia Urn Burial by Thomas Browne (the ones that sound like the ramblings of a madman), but there's also a quote from Twelfth Night (sad cypress), one from Macbeth (mentioned in the story) and one from the Bible (at the very end).

_“There is no antidote against the opium of time, which temporally considereth all things: our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while some trees stand, and old families last not three oaks.”_

_Hydriotaphia Urn Burial (Excerpt) – Thomas Browne_

 

* * *

 

Billy invariably displayed the uncanny ability to find Sherlock, like a dowser locating buried ores: when they emerged from the tunnels, they took a short cut amidst the cinder-mantled ruins and they found him waiting for them at the end of the maze; he was intent on petting the horse, as the poor animal had been startled by the excess of smoke and the sirens’ din, which was reminiscent of Judgement Day. 

“How did he know we’d be here?” asked John. “I would have expected him to be waiting for us in the same spot where we left him.”

The detective gave him a gamin, oblique smile.

“He knows the topography of this place better than we ever will,” he said, proudly. “And he must have figured out that we would find a way into the tunnels and thence a safe exit path.”

“It’s the route we always choose when there is danger,” confirmed Jules. The two lads had a brief consultation then the older one followed his friend atop the carriage box.

“I shall drive with him,” the violet-eyed boy stated, implying that he knew his place; John was about to protest, but he quickly realised it would have been in vain.

As soon as he sat down, he was seized by a vague sickness which he recognised as the combined effects of excitement and weariness. Sherlock was staring at him and was surely aware of his condition, but he stayed silent. The doctor returned his gaze with a fondness that quickly turned into mirth.

“You look like a chimney sweeper,” he guffawed, and pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he proceeded to clean up his lover’s face and neck. Sherlock emitted a little shriek of protest, but when John ordered him to be still, he became as malleable as wet clay. After that, the doctor’s fingers sank into his tangled hair and deftly removed each trapped sliver of debris with infinite care.

“Don’t waste your time,” the young man chided, and nervously started to pull at his curls, shaking his mane furiously to dislodge the extraneous matter.

“Stop this,” John thundered, and to his amazement, he was obeyed at once. When he looked at his friend, he read in his countenance - in his rosy cheeks and enlarged pupils - that the detective had wanted to provoke that very reaction. Whereas the doctor’s agitation had been tempered by his weakened state, Sherlock’s exhilaration was at its zenith and required the appropriate outlet.

“You won’t move or protest until I’m done with you,” John commanded, curling possessive fingers around the detective’s throat in a gesture that was meant to reassure rather than immobilise him.

“When this day is over,” the young man murmured, as he surrendered to his lover’s attentions.

“I shall reward you,” the doctor replied, as he fought to free a splinter of wood from the tight embrace of a dusty curl. Sherlock hummed, and his body vibrated at every soft tug. When the operation was completed, John tidied himself up as swiftly as he could, refusing the detective’s help in order to contain his own arousal. He knew that it was partly a reaction to the disaster they had just witnessed, but the proximity of his lover gladdened his heart all the same.

In the meantime, the cab had been jouncing through the crowds and soon they were within sight of Bishopsgate.  

“Should we stop directly at St. Mary Axe?” asked John, eyes flashing with rage; he wanted to storm the place and damn the consequences, but he would submit to his friend’s superior authority.

“Cooper will surely be at the hospital,” replied the detective. “They could have taken Robbie to the cottage, but I doubt they would be allowed to darken his doorstep. I suppose we could check, but I fear we may lose valuable time.”

The doctor nodded and Billy was instructed to continue to Shoreditch and thence to Holywell Mount.

“I never quite perceived how close that burial ground is to the Shakespeare Theatre,” he said, but as he glanced at his companion, he saw that Sherlock was smiling to himself. “You did mention that the rabbit warren would be the ideal spot to hide a corpse.”

“Yes, I believe you are right,” replied the detective, and his face took on a more sedate expression. “We are almost there, my dear,” he whispered, and John nodded; he took out his pistol and made sure it was ready to use; next to him, his friend was holding his breath.

“Here,” John said, “Take my pen-knife.”

Sherlock held the leather-sheathed blade un his palm and stared at it for a little while, before pocketing it with a soft exhale of breath.

The carriage halted at the corner of Holywell Lane and the two men emerged from it, ready for battle.

“I would prefer you not to come with us,” the doctor said to the boys, who at once contradicted him: Billy wore that bullish expression that likened him to a recalcitrant mule, while Jules pinned his disconcerting indigo gaze on his, without blinking once.

“I need you to go to the Birdcage and enquire about William Crompton; question the publican if necessary” said Sherlock, and even though his manoeuvre was obvious, the older boy couldn’t refuse or he would have mortally offended his mute friend.

“Alright,” Jules conceded, bending his head and biting his lips in frustration, “But you will find Robbie, won’t you?”

“Yes,” replied John, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “We won’t fail you.”

The lad took his younger friend by the hand and led him away.

 

As they entered the cemetery, they were struck by its air of abandon: the only other time they had seen it had been at night and they had been more interested in the gravedigger than in the actual grounds.

The entrance gate was smothered by weeds and straggling plants, among which John recognised the ever-present hemlock.

“Conium maculatum,” Sherlock said, and to his companion’s surprise, he plucked a handful of leaves and carefully placed them inside one of the compartments of his velvet pouch. “Did you know that coniine causes vertigo?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “Once I was called to assist a little girl who’d just ingested it by mistake. Her mother said she’d watched her stagger about in the garden and wondered if she’d been stung by a bee.”

“Did you save her?”

“Unfortunately not,” John murmured, “I was too late. If I had been there just as it happened, I could have administered an emetic. She simply stopped breathing, poor mite.”

“The leaves I have just picked would be sufficient to kill a man or a woman, I imagine.”

“Yes, they would. As I am sure you already know, coniine is an extremely potent alkaloid.”

Sherlock bit his lip, thoroughly fascinated.

“Another subject for your studies,” John suggested, and again revelled in the happy knowledge that he would bear witness to the young man’s future experiments.

“Well, let’s see where these ruffians are hiding,” he said, and strode vigorously towards the assembly of derelict graves that decorated the hillock.

The ground had been hardened by the frost and there were no visible signs of interference: the mould-eaten angels with vacant eyes and imperturbable smiles guarded their dubious treasures with tranquil nobility; not even the crassness of worms could insinuate their serene authority. Ancient, unadorned stones rose from the earth like jagged teeth and the truncated columns, blackened and eroded by the opium of time, exposed their stumps to the elements.

Sherlock inspected each grave-site closely, but it was obvious that no recent burials had occurred.

“Perhaps on the other side,” the blond man proposed; they had just reached the top of the mound when they saw it, in the distance: a circular construction, like a folly or a pavilion, half-hidden, in the midst of a clump of cypress trees. It was gothic in style, with lancet windows and frothy turrets, and even from there, it seemed as incongruous as life amongst all that death.

“And in sad cypress let me be laid,” whispered the detective.

“Quite,” his companion concurred.

As if in a dream, they ran towards it, and as they approached it, they realised it was a wreck that resembled the ruins of an ancient castle. The glass panes on the windows and doors had been painted black, a fact to which both men attributed the same meaning.

“A dissecting pavilion, made to look like the relics of a folly,” said Sherlock, with a flicker of admiration that soon dissolved into bitterness.

“But why would they need it, when Sir Astley already owns a perfectly appointed set of dissecting rooms? Not to speak of the hospital.”

“That is work, this is fun,” replied the detective, with a grimace.

They tried the imposing portal, but it was bolted from the inside.

“Shooting through the lock won’t help this time,” John remarked, in a whisper.

“Let’s see whether there’s another entrance.”

They trampled over the frozen brambles and went round the construction.

“Here,” exclaimed the detective, indicating a narrow, arched door that was almost invisible, as it was perfectly concealed by the surrounding brickwork.

“Pray that it’ll work,” Sherlock said, pulling out his bunch of skeleton keys. After a few unfruitful attempts, he finally found one that fit and with some difficulty the door creaked open. They both had to duck down to get in, and a sprinkle of dust rained on them, white as crushed bones.

They were in a minuscule chamber in the shape of a crescent; it was candle-lit and reeked of incense, but underneath that fragrance was the pungent stench of sewage and the even more powerful one of decaying flesh.

“Someone has just been here,” John murmured, but his companion wasn’t listening; his attention had been caught by the altar that stood to far the side of the entrance. Upon it was a missal stand on which was an open volume.

“What is it?” asked the doctor.

“Smarra,” whispered Sherlock, fingering the parchment paper. “Look here,” he said, and when his friend complied, he saw the bloody finger-marks disseminated over the surface of the marble-topped altar.

“Oh Christ,” the doctor murmured, horrified.

“It’s still fresh,” commented the detective. Pistol in hand, John inspected their immediate surroundings, but the room was otherwise bare, devoid of ornaments or hiding places.

“I suspect this is their worshipping altar,” Sherlock said, as he approached the door that led to the rest of the building.

“Wait,” the doctor hissed, “Let me go first,” and as the detective obeyed he added, “Stay right behind me and do not dare disappear on your own.”

This time, the door opened with ease: it was obvious that it was regularly used.

After the cramped quarters they had just emerged from, the main body of the pavilion, with its ogival arches and blanched walls seemed almost like an empty palace.

The detective had plucked a candle from its holder and the light fell upon neglected corners in which spiders had woven their frail trapezes; the vaulted ceiling contained a memory of saints and cherubs, whose colours had been drained by humidity and age.

“Listen,” murmured the detective.

They stood stock still until they heard it: faint and soft like the hum of a spring breeze, a cry or perhaps a chant, coming from somewhere behind the frescoes.

“There must be a way in from here,” suggested John; they pressed their hands to the damp walls, but to no avail. In the meantime, the noise had ceased, leaving them at the mercy of an unplaceable enemy.

“We used to have a folly in Sussex,” said Sherlock, “Where I grew up. I spent most of my childhood hiding in there. It was not unlike this one and, almost like a church: it had a main body and a semicircular chamber on either side.”

“There must be a door in the same location as the other, but on the opposing wall then,” suggested the doctor.

They inspected the surface in question, but this time they knew what they were searching for; when it seemed that they had been mistaken, in utter frustration, John kicked at the wainscoting, thus operating the spring mechanism that allowed the door to open with a click.

Once again, they were submerged by the potent stench of decaying flesh, but in this instance the incense could do nothing to mask it; the aromatic oil was burning inside a large pewter basin that had been placed near the entrance, together with a wrought-iron candelabrum. The room was clouded with thick, fragrant smoke which made it impossible for them to discern its interiors. A moment later, they wished they had been kept in ignorance; as they explored the chamber armed with the candelabrum, a gruesome spectacle revealed itself in all its atrocity: atop the altar, which had been covered with a dark velvet shroud, was the body of a man; his face was contorted in a frightful grimace while his chest had been cut open from clavicle to groin: his bowels had spilled out like wine-hued snakes.

“Whackett,” said Sherlock, covering his nose and mouth with the back of one hand.

“They have removed his heart and his liver,” gasped the doctor.

“The shroud isn’t black, but rather steeped in blood,” observed the detective.

“I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,” quoted a voice that belonged to neither of them.

“Macbeth,” said John and before he could speak again or try to guess whose voice it was that had uttered those words, a blonde head and a slender body appeared from underneath the table, where the young man had been hiding.

“Stirling?” both men exclaimed, taking in the ghastly figure, clad and tinged with blood all over. His eyes, those merry, sparkling eyes, were devoid of all expressions and pin-prick-pupilled. “Has he been drugged?” John asked.

“I fear it’s worse than that,” murmured Sherlock.

“Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register of God, not in the record of man. Innumerable names make up the first story and the number of the dead long exceedeth all that shall live,” Stirling said, as if replying to the detective’s assertion.

“Where is Robbie?” asked John, pointing the pistol at the boy’s chest, “What have you done with him?”

“Done with whom?”

“The boy with the silver hair,” said the detective, who couldn’t quite take his eyes off the dismembered body of the grave-digger.

“Silver, like the stars at night,” Stirling said, and moving around the room like he would have on a stage, he continued: “I favour the inky cloak of night, when church-yards yawn. Now, where have I heard that one? They said a sacrifice was needed to gain accession to the life that breeds more life; to the eternity that shuns death; but I could not imagine,” he cried out, stamping his feet like a petulant child.

“What could you not imagine?” asked Sherlock, angrily; he was growing impatient, worried as he was about Robbie’s, and the other two boys’, safety.

“That since the brother of death daily haunts us with dying mementoes, and time that grows old in itself, bids us hope no long duration, diuturnity is a dream and folly of expectation,” he declared.

“What is he saying?” John asked his companion.

“I think that he feels he’s been cheated; he was promised something that he doesn’t really want, after all. Not at any price.”

“The price is too costly,” agreed Stirling, and for a moment he seemed to have regained his presence of mind. It was but a fleeting instant, for soon after he was laughing manically, until he had tears in his eyes.

“Who did this to you?” enquired the doctor, “Who forced you to commit this heinous crime? And where have they taken Robbie?”

“There is such a thing as honour,” the boy declared, clutching the lapels of an invisible cloak close to his chest. “Just because I have forsaken my side of the bargain, it doesn’t mean that I would betray the cause.”

“And what are you prepared to tell us then? What?” growled Sherlock, shaking the boy so hard his teeth rattled; Sam was like a broken doll, a puppet without its stuffing. His lips stretched in an obscene smile, but his eyes were overflowing with tears.

“When many that feared to die, shall groan that they can die but once, the dismal state is the second and living death, when life puts despair on the damned; when men shall wish the coverings of mountains, not of monuments, and annihilations shall be courted,” he quoted, brokenly. His sanity clearly vanquished by madness, if he were to be consigned to the law, it would only mean death by hanging, followed by dissection.

The detective stared at John’s pistol and then at his friend, who understood and shook his head. Sherlock did not utter a word of protest or reprobation: he simply took something from his pocket and an instant later, he was holding a handful of leaves.

“I can offer you the means of an honourable way out,” he said, dangling the poison hemlock in front of Stirling’s blood-smeared mouth.

“Will it be painful?” the boy asked, vaguely, as if did not really concern him.

“A little,” John replied, “But it will be a swift departure. We will be here, with you,” he added, touching Stirling’s soaked hair.

“I’m not completely sure this is the right thing to do,” he said to the detective, but Sam was faster than either or them: in a trice, he pinched the leaves and stuffed them inside his mouth; he chewed them as if they were tobacco and when he swallowed them down, he chuckled, like it was all a funny joke.

“Why does it have to end in this terrible way?” the doctor demanded.

“Is this truly the end?” said the boy, “Please say that it is!” and it was Sherlock’s turn to console him.

“We shall make sure that you are not disturbed,” he murmured, “Nobody but us will know where you are.”

“It’s funny,” Sam said, and his lips were slowly acquiring a bluish tinge, “I seem to have trouble breathing,” and his voice broke.

In the next instant, his body was wracked by a powerful seizure; he dropped to his knees and John helped him to lie down on the floor, head on his lap; it was uncannily similar to the scene at Brooke’s museum, when he’d found Sherlock holding poor Tom’s body.

“You have to stop them,” Sam rasped, in between shallow, torturous breaths, “The enemy persecuteth my soul,” he stuttered, and then he was no more.


	30. A Quintessence of Nothingness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys find Robbie

_“For I am every dead thing,_

_In whom Love wrought new alchemy._

_For his art did express_

_A quintessence even from nothingness,_

_From dull privations, and lean emptiness;_

_He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot_

_Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.”_

_A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day (excerpt) - John Donne_

 

* * *

 

“What are we going to do with them? We can’t simply leave them here,” said John, who was still cradling Sam’s head in his lap. “We promised him we wouldn’t let them have his body. Should we dig a hole and bury him on the Mount?”

Sherlock had thrown out the incense basin and the air was clearing from the smoke, but the stench was fast becoming insupportable. He was entranced by the sight of Whackett’s mutilated trunk and the cavities left by the missing organs. Even tough he had witnessed a few dissections, he’d never seen the cadaver of a man who’d been opened up while he was still alive, as the surfeit of blood demonstrated in this case.

“I noticed a spade, outside,” he replied vaguely.

“We haven’t time!” groaned John. “The boys might be in danger and we still haven’t found Robbie. I think we shall have to leave that wretched grave-digger here and take Sam with us. I will carry him.”

“No, that you shan’t do!” replied the detective, shaken out of his reverie. “You haven’t yet recovered fully. Besides, we can’t carry a bloodied corpse with us in the middle of the day. Even in squalid Shoreditch, that would hardly go unnoticed.”

“What then?”

But before they could debate the subject any further, they heard the unmistakable sound of a carriage approaching. It broke the gloomy silence of the cemetery in the most auspicious way, like church-bells ringing usually gladden the heart of sinners and innocents alike.

“Bless Wiggins for his impeccable timing,” exclaimed John, while Sherlock ran out of the chamber and from thence to the front portal, which he unbolted without difficulty.

The cab approached at a considerable speed and by the time the detective was outside, it halted abruptly and the two boys descended from the box.

“Did you find him?” he asked them.

“We didn’t find Robbie, but we have a gift for you nonetheless,” declared Jules; he went to open the carriage door and inside, trussed up like a spit-roast fowl, was William Crompton.

“When we got to the Birdcage, Billy went in at the front and I covered the back, and sure enough there he was, trying to do a runner. He was well in his cups, so it wasn’t hard to knock him out and tie him up,” the older boy explained, a clear note of pride in his voice.

“He reeks of smoke and his clothes are speckled with blood,” Sherlock remarked, as he inspected the unconscious felon. “Very well done,” he said, and both boys visibly preened at the compliment.

“Whackett is dead,” he added, “And so is another fellow, an actor named Sam Stirling. We promised him we would give him a proper burial, but we can’t…”

“I will do it,” said Jules, firmly. “I don’t want anyone to suffer at the hands of these scoundrels. Did this Sam kill the Whackett fellow?”

“It certainly looks that way,” Sherlock replied, tentatively.

In the meantime, John had appeared on the threshold of the pavilion; he was carrying Stirling’s body, which he had tried to clean as best he could; he’d covered his face with his handkerchief and his torso with his jacket.

“Thanks heavens you are all right!” he said to the boys, and noticing the man inside the cab, “And you’ve brought him along too! I hope he did not cause you more trouble than necessary.”

“He was too drunk to be a problem,” replied the older boy, with a smirk. “Here, let me,” he added, and took Sam’s lifeless body from the doctor arms.

While that odd conversation had taken place, the detective had fetched the spade and was showing Billy what he deemed to be the best spot for the burial: a clearing by the cypress trees which was partially invaded by brambles; the wild plants would serve to disguise the makeshift grave.

“I don’t think we should leave you alone in this godforsaken place,” said John, but Jules had already started digging. Poor Sam lay on the humid ground, at the foot of a tree.

“Do not worry about me,” said Jules, as he sank the spade into the earth, stepping on the blade to push it in. “I always carry a knife on me and I have seen much worse, believe me.”

“We will come for you,” replied the doctor, but he shook his head.

“I prefer to make my own way,” he said, and his tone of voice brooked no argument.

“Be on your guard,” urged Sherlock, “And if you don't mind, it would be helpful if you could call on Lestrade at the Coven Garden Police station, F division. Give him my name and explain about Whackett, Robbie and the Field Lane fire. Do not mention anything else, not even Crompton. Should Lestrade be absent, speak to Craddock. All understood?”

“Yes, of course,” Jules replied; he did not relinquish his task nor did he gaze up at the detective, whom he evidently disliked; probably he was attracted to John, thought Sherlock, with a twinge of jealousy; but then it would always be so: boys would try their luck with him, but he was certain that they would always come away empty-ended. He would make sure of that.

They left him amongst the dead, and speedily drove out of Holywell Mount.

 

“Wake up,” Sherlock shouted, and slapped Crompton, hard, on both cheeks; the man opened his eyes, stupefied and only partially conscious.

“What did you do with the boy?” John asked, grabbing him by the throat.

“I don’t know,” the wretch muttered, thus earning another smack.

“I swear I don’t know!”

The doctor pressed the muzzle of his pistol against Crompton’s neck and waited for him to speak, which he did with alarming speed.

“I was told we had to smoke the boys out, that is true, may the Lord have mercy on me; Whackett came with me and he said he was looking for a young lad, but I shouldn’t concern myself with that; he said it was nowt to do with me. He offered a full bottle of laudanum and said he would pay me five guineas. After the job was done, I came back to Shoreditch and went for a pint at the ‘Cage, and that’s where that deuced lad hit me on the noggin.”

“Come along now, you must know who’s behind all this and what they would do to the boy,” snarled the detective. “This is not the first time and it wouldn’t have been the last.”

“I prefer to keep my head attached to the rest of my body,” said Crompton, with a bitter smile, “He made it very clear that I better not be nosy, Whackett did. And I do care for my head, as it’s been with me for a long while.”

“A regular joker,” said John, and the metal dragged along the man’s jaw, making him tremble with fear, “And yet, I still don’t think you have told us the whole truth.”

“Tell us about The Shakespeare Theatre,” asked Sherlock, “And the company of actors who were about to stage The Vampyre.”

“I used to frequent such places, once upon a time,” he replied, and once again John was surprised by his elegant elocution in stark contrast to his rotten teeth and filthy clothes. “But I lost everything I owned and here I am. Gambling and drinking aren't congenial bedfellows, alas.”

“No, I don’t suppose they are,” the doctor replied, “But we are not interested in your past; what we care about is the present and I don’t believe you’re telling us the truth.”

“The truth,” repeated Crompton, mockingly, “There can be as many truths as there are men, and I do not demand to know what yours is. For instance, the first time I set eyes on you, you said you were surgeons.”

“That’s what I am,” replied John, “That was no lie.”

“But your friend here is no doctor, is he?” quipped the man, staring Sherlock in the eye, “His attire proclaims his class and his accent confirms it. I wonder why a gentleman of your ilk is consorting with those unsavoury boys. Unless it’s for your private delectation?” he suggested, with a lewd smile.

The blond man gritted his teeth and the pistol dug a little more forcefully into Crompton’s flesh.

“Do not provoke me, Sir,” he hissed. “I doubt you’d be missed, in case of accident. I was a soldier, but I’m slightly out of practice.”

The man swallowed nervously and his brow became pearled with sweat.

“I swear that I have not met the people at the theatre, but I do know that the site was used to hide the Subjects,” he replied, in a broken voice, “That’s what they call the corpses that get sold to the morgues. At first, that was all that happened: the snatchers would dig up corpses and ask for a spot of help and that was enough to keep me in laudanum. Then, sometime last year, things started to change: it was no longer a case of trading the dead, there weren’t enough of them, it seems.”

“So you and your friends started burking,” suggested the detective. Crompton’s eyes widened and filled with pure terror.

“I have never killed a soul,” he shouted. “I never could, you have to believe me.”

“But you have helped them conceal the bodies, dressed as a monk like the anatomists at King's, in the company of your acolyte, Mr Whackett.”

“We were told to, we were just obeying orders.”

“That’s not a good excuse, is it?” said John, “You had a choice in the matter; you could have said no.”

Crompton seemed to deflate and covered his face with his hands.

“I could not do it, I was too weak,” he whined. “I still am.”

“And did you also inveigle the boys into capturing stray dogs for your master?”

“Yes, but there was nothing wrong with that,” Crompton replied, gazing up at the detective. “A man of science needs living things to experiment on, so said Whackett and it seemed a fair point, at the time.”

“You must have known what sort of end would befall the poor creatures!” said the doctor, who despite his own better counsel, was starting to feel sorry for the poor wretch. John had, after all, lost his wife to addiction and he knew what a merciless torturer it was.

“The dogs, yes,” the man admitted, sniffling pitifully, “But I didn’t imagine they he would do anything to the boys.”

“I understand that you know who the ‘master’ is then?”

Crompton was hesitant for a moment, but he was too far gone to retreat into silence.

“I followed a carriage once, and thought it would go to the Shakespeare as usual, but it went to St. Mary Axe instead, and that was how I knew it was Sir Astley Cooper’s money we were taking. After that, I don’t think they used the theatre as hiding place anymore.”

“Do you have any idea why?” asked John, and before Crompton could reply, Sherlock intervened.

“They were discovered, that’s why,” he said. “Someone found out and decided to put a stop to it. When was it? Let’s see: a little more than a month ago, by my estimate.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” answered the bewildered man. “How do you know?”

“Because a chain of events was set in motion which caused many unfortunate accidents, including the death of a very young boy; a child, I should say. By the by, were you acquainted with Mr Rowland Brookes?”

Crompton shook his head. “I heard his name mentioned once or twice, but he belonged to the other side of the business, so to speak: those who took an active part in the experiments; as I said, I merely gave a hand, here and there. A question of survival, you see?”

“I think we should go to the Shakespeare now,” said Sherlock, and when his companion assented, he gave the order to Billy.

They arrived in no time at all, as they were just around the corner from Curtain Road. Wiggins was left in charge of guarding the prisoner, who had no intention whatsoever to escape, seeing as he was still bound with ropes and dazed by the blows he’d received.

 

When John entered the ill-fated building, a shiver ran through him; the memories were extremely vivid and unpleasant; the police had left everything as it had been that night, except for the body of poor Conquest.

They trod cautiously, but the place exuded the same air of abandonment as Holywell Mount. They searched the rooms and found them empty. They even ventured upstairs, with the same fruitless results.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to search the rabbit warren,” Sherlock said, gazing at his lover with concern. “You can stay here if you prefer.”

“And let you risk your neck on your own? The devil I will,” replied the doctor, and waving his pistol to indicate that he would lead the way, he strode towards the door that opened onto the underground vaults.

Sherlock took the gas-lamp from the back-stage table and lit it; he then joined his friend and turned the key in the lock; when John opened the door, they were immediately greeted by a scent that for once was neither pungent nor distasteful: it was the sweet smell of jasmine.

Even though they had been there already, the labyrinth proved tricky to navigate and it was the perfume that guided them more than their sense of direction.

“We are almost there,” murmured the detective, after they had taken one last turn, “The next chamber is where the book was.”

“I shall go ahead,” whispered the blond man, “Just stay here,” he ordered, staring his lover in the eye to convey that it was indeed a command.

Softly, as if on the wings of a righteous bird, he tiptoed into the vaulted chamber and at the far end of it, he perceived the faint glimmer of a candle. When he moved closer, he finally discerned the silver mane of the boy they were searching for: he appeared to be unconscious and was lying supine on the dusty floor and next to him, on his knees was the figure of another boy. Later John wondered how he’d recognised him so swiftly, considering that he’d only seen him once, and he then realised that the candlelight had fallen upon the boy’s crimson garments and turned them into the colour of blood.

“Celliers!” he couldn’t help but scream. At once, the candle was snuffed out and in the commotion that followed – with Sherlock entering the fray and lighting up the cramped space and John running towards Robbie – Celliers had disappeared. The detective dashed in the direction of the trap door and found it half-open. When he emerged onto the street, there was no sign of the fugitive. Unfortunately, their cab was parked near the main entrance; since Billy had been inside the carriage guarding Crompton, he had not noticed what had happened nor had he heard or seen anyone run past the cab.

 

When Sherlock went back into the rabbit warren, John was intent on checking Robbie’s pulse.

“He’s alive, but I fear he too has been drugged. The police have taken the bottle away, but I guess that deuced Celliers had more of that doctored opium with him.”

“Oh, my Lord it hurts,” croaked the boy, as he came to, “Where am I? What are you to doing here?” he asked and as he tried to sit up, he fell back down with a pained whimper. “This isn’t Saffron Hill. Tell me what happened!”

“We shall tell you, but only if you let me check your concussion,” John said, and when the boy stared vacantly at him, he smiled and said “I mean your head; do you see clearly or have you double vision? Do you have a feeling that the room is whirling around you?”

“No, it hurts here,” he indicated a spot at the base of his skull, which already sported a sizeable bump. “Will you tell me now?”

“Saffron Hill went up in flames,” said Sherlock, abruptly and his lover’s glare did little to chasten him. “Your friends are safe; we left them in the tunnels. Jules insisted on accompanying us. Tell us what you remember.”

“I’ll be damned if I know what happened,” Robbie exclaimed and he was about to gesture as was his custom, but he found that it was too painful. “One minute I was running towards Fagan's and the next I was in darkness. Was I alone?”

“A boy named David Celliers was with you,” replied John.

“I don’t know no Celliers fellow,” said the boy, puzzled. “But you haven’t told me what this deuced hovel is.”

“The Shakespeare Theatre in Curtain Road,” answered Sherlock. “Where John was poisoned and a man called Benjamin Conquest was killed. Where the snatchers used to hide the bodies until they were found out and decided they could no longer take the risk. Where a play called the Vampyre was going to be staged, in which a boy named Sam Stirling was supposed to act; the very same boy is now dead, turned into the very quintessence of nothingness. Your friend Jules is digging his grave in a forlorn cemetery amongst the brambles and the cypress trees.”

For the first time since they had made his acquaintance, Silver Robbie was speechless.

 

 

 


	31. A Fool of Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm  
> Also, sex happens, so mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Byron's poem was dedicated to his last love, his Greek page: 16-year-old Lukas Chalandritsanos. 
> 
> Note 2: Don't think I have misconstrued the ineptitude of the English police of the era. From what I have read in The Italian Boy by Sarah Wise, they were much much worse.

_“I am a fool of passion, and a frown_  
_Of thine to me is an adder’s eye_  
_To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down_  
_Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;_  
_Such is this maddening fascination grown,_

_So strong thy magic or so weak am I”_

_Last Words on Greece (excerpt) – Lord Byron_

* * *

 

They left the theatre with Silver Robbie in tow, but the boy was both mystified and angry: he couldn’t fathom what had occurred and resented the fact that Sir Astley was still untouched and, in his opinion, likely to remain so.

John shared his frustration, but was somewhat bemused at Sherlock’s muted reaction to the entire ordeal. He didn’t seem too interested in questioning Crompton any further and they spent the journey to Covent Garden in relative silence. Robbie had insisted on driving with Billy, and after the two youth had exchanged an awkward embrace, they dove into a fitful conversation that revolved around Saffron Hill and the damage it had incurred.

When they reached the police station, they found Jules in the company of Craddock; Lestrade was due back from Field Lane, where he’d been examining the wreckage and assessing the eventuality of bringing the culprit to justice.

“Here he is,” announced John, and pushed the recalcitrant Crompton inside the Inspector’s office. “Mr William Crompton: opium addict, grave-snatcher and arsonist.”

“Is he now?” said Lestrade’s right-hand man. “Well, well, I hope you don’t mind the stench of piss, because there’ll be plenty of that at Newgate.”

Crompton smirked and tried to look defiant, but his bedraggled appearance and hollow eyes made it impossible.

“I heard there’s plenty of porter to be drunk, that it flows as plentiful as water in the Thames,” he said; and truth be told, Craddock knew that was the case, but he wasn't going to let a felon rejoice at his impending gaol sentence.

“Who says that the two never mingle?” he quipped and smiled roguishly when he saw that the barb had hit its target.

John had observed the scene with ill-concealed bewilderment, as up to then he’d considered the policemen to be the dour, self-effacing sort, while he was merely a painstaking law-enforcer who whole-heartedly believed in obeying his superiors.

“Where will you be staying now?” the doctor asked of the two boys; they were partaking of the tea and buttered bread that had become a recurring feature every time one of the Holmes entered the building.

“Saffron Hill is not finished,” replied Robbie, as he daintily sipped his beverage, “The tunnels have survived and as for the shops and huts, they will have to be rebuilt, won’t they?”

“When incidents of this sort take place, the mighty and the rich take advantage of the situation,” said Jules, bitterly. “Some duke or other will buy the land for a song and build grand mansions on it. We will never recover what we have lost.”

Sherlock was about to unleash his ever grimmer prediction, but his companion captured his attention and shook his head, asking him to be silent.

“Perhaps Robbie is right,” he said, “After all, these people will have to be housed somewhere and why not in the same part of London?”

“There’s the workhouse for them,” Jules replied, “And for us, the Rookery or the snatchers.”

John, who after the ordeal’s excitement had now surrendered to the needs of his stomach, swallowed a mouthful of sugary tea and frowned.

“Don’t say that,” he argued. “We have been to the Rookery and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. There must be a way out of this predicament and we won’t abandon you, isn’t it right, Sherlock?” he added, looking at his lover, who was staring into his tea cup as if decrypting the configuration of its dregs.

“No,” replied the detective, distractedly. “Yes, we shall find a way to help you. In the meantime, I suggest you leave and let us deal with the Inspector,” he concluded, holding a silent conversation with Jules, who was reluctant to abandon the sinking ship. Robbie, who had recovered from the shock and was back to his indomitable self, took his friend by the arm and, shaking John and Sherlock’s hands, sauntered out of the room with puckish élan, followed by a sullen Jules.

An interval of silence followed: the detective was still deep in his reverie and his companion was devouring the buttered bread like it was ambrosia.

Craddock had returned to his post and taken Crompton with him, but after a while the relative quiet was interrupted by Lestrade, who waltzed in, carrying with him a stench of smoke and sewage.

“What a deuced mess!” he sighed, slumping down on a chair and receiving the tea John had poured for him, with a grateful glance. “And the fellow trussed up like a partridge is the ruffian responsible for that carnage. That’s Newgate for him and possibly the gallows. I take it he was not alone or you wouldn’t still be here. Besides, I believe there was a mention of a certain Whackett.”

“Whackett is dead. We left his mutilated body inside the pavilion at Holywell Mount,” said Sherlock, who had not quite emerged from his brown study. “I think you should be apprised of the fact that we came across Samuel Stirling. He had gone insane and in his madness, had murdered the grave-digger; he then killed himself. We took the liberty of burying his body; should anyone enquire about him, kindly advise them to come to Baker Street.”

The Inspector gaped, coughed and spluttered.

“What,” he croaked, in between hiccups, “What? You mean the actor we were searching for?”

The detective sighed in obvious disdain.

“Yes, of course, who else would I mean? I wouldn’t swear on it, but I suspect that Stirling was waiting for Whackett and the man arrived at the Mount, the actor knocked him out then opened him up and removed some of his organs. When we found him he was covered in blood and his mind had lost his rightful balance.”

“And what of the missing organs?” asked the Inspector.

Sherlock scowled and glanced at John, who was still enjoying his victuals.

“Judging from the blood on his mouth and gums, I’d say he… consumed them; heart and liver.”

Lestrade grimaced and the doctor set the plate down on the table with a clatter.

“Christ!” exclaimed the Inspector, brushing a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Was he perchance part of a pagan cult? And you said Cooper is involved in all this? We can’t let it go unchallenged, not anymore.”

“Do what you like, but be aware that you might make a bad situation worse,” Sherlock said, in an icy tone.

“Worse than this?” countered John, who was wondering why Robbie and Celliers had not been mentioned.

“Yes,” hissed his friend. “In case you haven’t realised, every time we have gotten involved more than it was strictly necessary, someone has died. It may be an odd coincidence, but it wouldn’t do to tempt fate, don't you think?”

“And what do you propose to do?” asked Lestrade, heaving an exasperated sigh.

“We go back to Baker Street where a certain invitation should be waiting for us. I promise all will become clear in the next few days.”

The grey-haired man gazed at him with a shrewd expression in his brown eyes.

“You have this look,” he stated, “I know it only too well,” he continued, addressing John. “You will learn to discern it too, if you stay with him. It means that our boy here already knows what’s going to happen, but that he will neither disclose it nor let us interfere with his plans. All right then; but if Crompton accuses Cooper, I shan’t ignore it.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Sherlock snorted. “He’s too pigeon-livered for that. Oh, and one other thing please: do not tell the press about Crompton’s arrest; wait until tomorrow.”

“Understood,” agreed the Inspector. “I’ll send someone to Holywell Mount to take care of Whackett, while I interrogate the scoundrel you brought in.”

“I won’t ask you to keep this from my odious brother, because I suspect he knows about it already.”

Lestrade chuckled, but at Sherlock’s discomfiture, his mirth only increased.

“He’s part of the government,” he guffawed, “Of course he would know about a fire destroying part of the city. Besides, he’s like the eye in the sky: ever-present and all-knowing.”

At that, the detective groaned and, forcing a sniggering John to relinquish in third cup of tea, he made his exit.

 

As soon as they reached Baker Street, Corisande shot out of the door and fell into Billy’s arms. The boy patted her back and caressed her hair, all the while smiling proudly and blushing crimson.

“I heard the Hill is burnt to the ground,” she gasped, in between sobs. “Mrs Hudson said you’d gone there. I thought… oh, it was just too terrible!” She was shaking and Sherlock suspected it was partly a consequence of her continued opium withdrawal.

“Go and have something to eat,” advised John.

“Yes, and after that, come to see me,” said the detective. “I have an assignment for you two; nothing dangerous; it’s just the case of asking a few simple questions.”

Wiggins nodded and, curling his arm around the girl’s slender waist, he guided her back into the underground flat.

Just as they were inside the front door, Mrs Hudson made her appearance: she cocked her head to the side and clicked her tongue at their attire.

“You look like you’ve been in the wars,” she commented. “I’ll bring you some eggs and bacon in a minute. Oh, and there’s a letter for you upstairs; it was delivered by hand by an old relic named Rivers,” the landlady explained, with an amused wink, “Long white hair like a weeping willow and a shuffling gait.”

John cast an admiring glance in his lover’s direction. “Like you predicted,” he said.

“Hardly a prediction, my dear,” replied Sherlock, who lapped up the praise all the same. “We were told it would come, and if it be not now, yet it will come,” he quoted.

Mrs Hudson nodded and left them to get on with her cooking, but as they were about to negotiate the staircase, there was a knock at the door.

The doctor opened it, one hand firmly on the handle of his pistol, and was faced with a pink-faced, squint-eyed Victor Trevor.

“Just the men I wanted to see,” Trevor declared; he removed his hat and his unruly hair tumbled out like excited puppies from an upended basket.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but his companion greeted the journalist with warmth.

“We were just going to have some supper, if you care to join us.”

“You two need a bath and a stiff drink,” Trevor replied, winking, “And I wouldn’t dream of imposing. Besides, there’s still work to do at the old mill, so to speak. I see from your chimney-sweepers' garb that you were at Saffron Hill. Rumour has it you were there with the Forty Thieves gang. All I want to know before I leave you to your ablutions is: why? I mean, those rickety hovels were just inviting disaster, but you two being present changes things.”

“One hour ago, Inspector Lestrade arrested William Crompton, a dope fiend hailing from Nova Scotia Gardens. He started the fire out of sheer perversion,” the detective explained.

“And you just happened to apprehend him in the act.”

“He confessed and is now detained at the Covent Garden Police station. I asked the good inspector to keep the information secret until tomorrow, as I suspected you would pay us a visit.”

Trevor laughed and patted John’s arm.

“He’s always been like this,” he said, “I swear that  we used to think he had supernatural powers.”

“Perhaps he does,” replied the doctor, gazing at his companion with adoring eyes.

“I shan’t waste any more of your time, dear fellows,” Trevor said, briskly, “I will send my boy to the Police Station with one of your cards, if you don’t mind; we want our readers to see what the felon looks like: an image is worth a thousand words, in our case.”

“I’m quite convinced Lestrade has not forgotten you,” said Sherlock, but handed him one of his cards all the same.

After having uttered a hasty goodbye, Trevor put his hat back on and dashed out of the building.

“I bet he will have his own newspaper soon,” John noted, but he received no reply. Sherlock was back into his daydream, the doctor mused.

Dutifully, Mrs Hudson served them a copious amount of eggs and bacon, which they consumed in near silence.

There were many questions John wanted to ask, but he was aware that the quaint atmosphere did not favour any sort of conversation.

Billy and Corisande made their entrance as the two men were drinking their well-earned whiskies.

“I would like you to go to the Adelphi Theatre and find out from the current manager what he knows about Samuel Stirling. I need a list of the productions he’s appeared in and the exact dates. Ask whether he had any visitors during those times. Pretend you are his sister, that you are worried about his disappearance and are desperate to find him. Theatrical people won’t talk to the police, but they will be more inclined to open up if a family member is involved.”

“Should we come to you once we return?”

“Tomorrow morning, if you please,” replied the detective.

Once the two youths had departed, the doctor finally asked the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

“Why this sudden interest about Sam; why not after he’d just disappeared?

Sherlock smiled wanly and lit one of his slim Turkish cigars.

“I already know the answers,” he replied, “I merely want confirmation. After all, we have a client and she will demand her money’s worth. Besides, you also need facts for your journal; pure speculation won’t do, methinks.”

“Is that all?” enquired John, with a fond smile.

“Not entirely,” answered his friend. “This little outing will provide Billy with a chance to show off his many qualities.”

“I’ve pledged my life to a secret Byronian.”

“I think you’ll find Lord Byron was romantic in word rather than deed. He famously mistreated many of his lovers, not to mention his poor wife.”

John prised the cigar from Sherlock’s lips and kissed him softly.

“While you, I assume, are thrifty in word but bountiful in sentiment,” he whispered.

“Sentiment,” scoffed the young man, but he permitted his lover to guide him in the direction of the wash-room.

 

Sherlock had shed his imaginary black shroud and had agreed to put the case to one side for the remainder of the evening. Christabel and Rowena Light’s invitation had been acknowledged, and John knew in his bones that something terrible and final was going to take place. In the interim, he felt that they deserved a peaceful interlude, and besides, they had something worth celebrating.

“You do have the most delectable neck,” John declared; he was washing his future husband’s hair while sitting behind him in the bath-tub.

“It’s too feminine,” replied Sherlock, with a self-satisfied grin.

“I beg to differ; I believe it is the very paragon of perfection, against which all other necks should be judged.”

“What a silly notion.”

“Undeniable, I should say,” he replied, and to prove his point, he licked and nibbled at the enticing column; all of a sudden, the jocular mood was replaced by one of carnality. Both men were tired and emotionally spent, so that their sensuality, much like a raw nerve that has been over-stimulated, was at its darkest and most complex.

John held his companion tight against his chest, and when he felt him pliant and lax, he reached down with his hand and found his prize ready for the plucking. His decision was made and without further ado, he rinsed his lover’s curls and concluded their ablutions. Sherlock rose up from the bath like a dazed Adonis; he let his companion rub him dry and followed him to his room. He would surrender completely, but there was one thing he needed; that he had dreamed about ever since he’d seen that infamous drawing in Cooper’s book. When John pushed him down on the bed, he rose up on his knees, his arms outstretched, fingers curled around the bedposts.

“Are you sure?” asked his lover, even as he caressed the rounded buttocks and cupped the heavy sac.

“Yes, please,” the detective replied, his voice reduced to a sultry croak. He wanted it with an intensity that almost frightened him; he closed his eyes and felt a surreal calm descend on him; his splayed his legs as wide as possible and waited, trying to keep his hips from gyrating.

Oil was dribbled and smeared all over his buttocks, massaged in between his cleft; it made him shiver and he had to bite his lips to repress a moan; John prepared him with his fingers; he was clinical and swift, just what Sherlock desired.

When the fat, dribbling glans pierced his entrance, he knew he was allowed to let go: he cried John’s name and tried to push his body towards the source of pleasure.

“Oh Lord, yes, yes,” screamed his lover, but he pinned his hips and proceeded to masturbate the tip of his arousal within the loosened ring. It was driving the young man to insanity; it was bliss.

“I want you so much,” crooned the doctor, to which Sherlock replied, half-blind with yearning “Have me, take me deep and hard, grant me no mercy, I beg you.”

That was too much even for an ex-soldier of John’s valour: he plunged into that shuddering body with every intention of never emerging from it.

The position allowed for the ferocity of anonymity and yet he never forgot whose body he was possessing; not that he could have, since at every thrust, Sherlock screamed and moaned, wanting more of his lover, all of him, in endless penetration and communion.

As he was on the verge of his crisis, John gathered the young man in his arms, forcing him on his lap.

“I can feel myself in you,” he whispered, grasping the detective’s hand and pressing it down on his taut belly. He pushed up with his hips and knifed at Sherlock’s bowels.

As if struck by lightning, the slender body twisted and undulated, and the boy’s erection slapped hard against his stomach.

“Again,” he pleaded. John was merciful and god-like: he grasped a handful of curls with one hand and the detective’s waist with famished fingers.

“Just like this,” he rasped, and Sherlock understood and impaled himself repeatedly, again and again, riding the engorged prick with viciousness, until ecstasy overtook them and drowned them in its hot, plentiful streams.


	32. Another Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is being... Sherlock.  
> Also, there's some smut at the start, so mind the tags...
> 
> This is a preparatory chapter before the ending.  
> I expect there should be two more chapters to go, so we are almost there....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The quote mentioned by Sherlock is from Hydriotaphia Urn Burial by Thomas Browne

_“But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.”_

_The Jew of Malta (excerpt) - Christopher Marlowe_

* * *

 

 

John came back from the privy and found Sherlock still asleep and more than half uncovered. He had heard the detective leave the bed at some point, but had not perceived his return; he had been there when it had been John’s turn to get up and now he was doing his most artistic portrayal of a dreaming prince; a rather provoking one at that, considering that only the corner of a linen sheet was preserving his modesty.

The sight was too tempting to resist, and besides it was obvious that beneath that flimsy drapery lay an already flushed member.

His mouth watered as he pulled the fabric away and saw the erection spring free and jut outwards, as if to demand attention. He hesitated, since after all his lover was sleeping and both etiquette and conscience dictated against such underhand practices. All his restraint was dashed to pieces upon noticing the sweet dew that welled up at the slit and before he could think on it, he’d already licked it off.

When he looked up, he caught the impudent buck glancing down at him; he immediately closed his eyes and played dead, but it was too late.

He knew his friend too well to assume a misstep on his part; it was clear that he wanted to be found out and punished. Many possibilities crowded John’s mind, but in the end he settled on one that he thought Sherlock would favour.

Firstly, he dedicated some time to licking the young man’s genitalia, thoroughly coating them until they dripped; then he sunk his middle finger inside the detective’s entrance, which was still slick from the previous night’s encounter. Soon, he found what he was searching for; when he stroked at the gland, lightly but with insistence, Sherlock could no longer feign unconsciousness: he let out a croaky moan, while arching his back and parting his legs even wider. He was offering and John would take and take. Before that, he would impart the delicious torture his lover had demanded: he closed his fist around the base of Sherlock’s shaft and increased the pressure on the bundle of nerves he’d been caressing: soon a constant stream of whitish liquid was tricking down from the rosy glans and the young man was muttering incoherently and shaking like an unbroken stallion.

“Stay still or I won’t let you finish,” John cautioned and with an enormous effort, the detective complied. He kept at his task until Sherlock’s testicles were all but bursting and his own were throbbing for release. He removed his finger and descended on his lover’s member lapping away the evidence of his torment. One last hard suck and he pulled away, eliciting a loud cry of protest.

“My love,” he rasped, and threw himself on top of his beloved, kissing him with a mouth full of his juices. He moved downwards, so that their erections were roughly aligned, the fat helmet of his glans rubbing the reddened cap of Sherlock’s.

“Your hand,” he gasped, and his clever boy curled his elegant fingers around the thickened pricks, creating an unbearably sensual friction. He joined in the act and, tugging at Sherlock’s curls, he forced the boy's head down so that they could exchange breaths even as they frotted against each other. John felt his lover's moan in his mouth, and his swallowed down the sweet cries and lewd keens, suckling at them as if they were tangible. _I love you_ , he said, with his tongue and lips, and was certain that his friend was responding in kind. This time, Sherlock spent first, and he’d been whipped up into so potent a frenzy that he would not stop ejaculating; he shook and jerked like he was being lashed, and this sensual contrast of pleasure and pain was mirrored in John’s intense crisis. The blond man painted his lover’s chest and neck with his thick discharge, the two mingling together; immediately after, he buried his face in that mess and feasted on it and on Sherlock’s sensitised skin.

“You drive me to insanity,” he said later, as he held a clean and clingy Sherlock in his arms; the detective was humming and purring like a well-sated feline, while his lover stroked his hair and caressed his back.

“Perchance things will change once we are legally bound to one another,” the young man whispered softly. Something in his tone, a tentative, quivering note, caused a burst of fierce tenderness to bloom inside John's chest.

“I fear my appetite will only increase,” he answered, kissing the detective’s forehead, “For even just the word ‘bound’ conjures all manner of images, none of them innocent or sedate.”

“Why do you say that you _fear_ it?” Sherlock asked, and his posture stiffened at once, while his expression became guarded. John wanted to pin him to the bed and steal the breath from his lungs.

“Because, my love, one day you might wish to cast aside the earthier side of your nature and favour the more spiritual one, while I will be forever yearning for the touch of your skin.”

The detective’s smile was the brightest his friend had ever seen on those enticing lips.

“You are mistaken in your assumptions,” he said, “Even though my past corresponds to your descriptions, my present and my future encompass both worlds, and one cannot exist without the other. You hunger feeds mine in an ouroboros that shall never extinguish itself.”

“And you insist that I’m the poet in this relationship,” John remarked, holding his lover even tighter to his chest.

“I was only stating a matter of fact.”

“If you keep at it, I shall imprison you here all day and I know that it’s not possible; not when there's urgent work to be done.”

“Not yet,” agreed Sherlock, “But when this dreadful affair is over, there will be plenty of time for… games.”

“You horrid tempter,” quipped the doctor, “I better get away from you, before you enchant me with you wiles.”

The young man laughed heartily and, as his lover moved away from him, he spread out on the rumpled bedsheets like a crucified Apollo, exuding beatitude and sensuality.

“I’m sure you are aware that you will pay for this,” John said, grinning devilishly.

“I look forward to it,” replied the detective, with a mock-dejected sigh.

 

Corisande was waiting for them in the drawing room, but unlike Billy on the previous occasion, she was quietly ensconced in the armchair by the fireplace; Mrs Hudson had provided her with clothes more suitable to her feminine deportment and her pallor was starting to recede, replaced by a becoming rosiness of cheeks. Her large hazel eyes still shone with a sort of intermittent fear: at times they were guileless, betraying her youth, but at others they were hooded and secretive, revealing even more of her troubled past.

“I have written everything down,” she said, handing Sherlock a scrap of crumpled paper, “In case I forgot something important,” she explained, unwilling to meet the detective’s gaze. After the incident of the journal, she still could not dare look John in the eye either, so she stared at the fireplace instead, with disquieting fixity.

The detective read the content of the paper and nodded to himself, but didn’t seem to wish to show it to his companion; he thanked the girl and complimented her for the success of her mission; she offered him a pretty curtsy and returned to her more mundane duties. She had barely gone, when another infinitely less welcome visitor made his entrance.

“Good morning, brother mine,” said the mellifluous voice, “Doctor Watson, I’m glad to see that you haven’t been too badly affected by that terrible ordeal.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily, but John greeted Mycroft and thanked him for his solicitude.

“May we offer you a cup of tea?” he asked, and before his lover could protest, he went to call on Mrs Hudson with a request for a fresh pot of the beverage.

When he returned with the tray he’d insisted on carrying himself, the two siblings were locked in resentful silence. He poured the drinks, handing a cup to their visitor, who accepted it with a profusion of gratitude.

“Sherlock refuses to behave like an adult, but I hope you will comprehend that my motives are pure and disinterested,” the elder Holmes said, ignoring his brother’s loud snort. “I only want to preserve your well-being and ensure your safety, and in order to do this, I believe that you should accept my offer.”

“We don’t need one of your minions to follow us wherever we go,” the detective hissed. “John was a soldier and he always carries a pistol on him. As for me, I have a talent for survival and I intend to exercise it without your interference.”

“This case is different,” insisted Mycroft. “You are dealing with ruthless villains, who would not hesitate to sacrifice their lives for their cause, however insane that may seem to a rational onlooker.”

“I wouldn’t call it a _cause_ ,” muttered Sherlock, “And there is a definite method in that apparent madness.”

“I’m sure you are right or they wouldn’t have been so successful, but that doesn’t mean they are not dangerous; in fact, it’s quite the opposite: they know what they want and won’t stop until they obtain it. Unfortunately, what they desire can never be procured.”

“And how would _you_ know?”

“Oh come on, my dear brother, even you must agree that Swedenborg is a false prophet, one that doesn’t provide answers as much as encourage divination. There is no such thing as life after death; there is no proof of the existence of the soul and surely it cannot be found amidst our flesh and blood. ”

“Desire is an entity you can’t fathom, dear brother; thus, you won’t accept that it might have the power to shift mountains.”

Mycroft directed his piercing gaze in John’s direction: the doctor was trying in vain to catch the drift of the conversation, but even in his annoyance and puzzlement, he couldn’t disguise his feelings for Sherlock.

“I see,” the older man pronounced, like a self-satisfied Cumaean Sibyl. “Congratulations are in order. I can’t say that I’m surprised, although I didn’t expect it to happen quite so soon. Summer is the perfect season for nuptials.”

The doctor’s bewildered look seemed to amuse Mycroft and enrage his brother, so John schooled his features into a more neutral expression.

“I don’t know how you do it, but thanks, I suppose. Sherlock and I would prefer this matter to remain a secret between us, until we decide otherwise.”

“Precisely,” agreed his companion, “And I know how terribly busy you are, dear brother.”

Mycroft sighed and tapped his elegantly-shod foot on the carpet, in a moderate show of vexation.

“I only wish you weren’t quite so stubborn,” he lamented. “And I know only too well that, should I try to overstep your boundaries, you would become even more reckless.”

“I shall keep him safe,” intervened John, who couldn’t help sharing some of the poor man’s frustration at Sherlock’s obstinacy.

“Prepare for the worst,” Mycroft told the doctor. “And do not let your chivalry obscure your common sense. I fear gentlemanly behaviour is the very weakness on which they would latch.”

“I’ll shoot any creature who tries to harm your brother, it’s as simple as that,” he replied, his kind blue eyes turned to flint.

“Very well,” conceded the elder Holmes; he was about to make his exit when he added, “I will do my utmost to convince Melbourne on the advantages of restoring Saffron Hill to his ancient splendours.”

“That’s truly generous,” said John, and even Sherlock grunted something conciliatory that sent Mycroft on his way in a less acerbic state of mind.

 

“Listening to you two is like trying to decrypt Ancient Egyptian without the Rosetta stone,” the doctor said, enjoying his second cup of tea. “You haven’t told me about Corisande’s visit to the Adelphi.”

“You know all the facts already; it is merely a question of connecting the loose threads,” replied Sherlock, who was back to the pensive mood of the previous evening.

“Surely it would be easier if you told me directly,” insisted the blond man, with a tinge irritation.

“I had feared you would be angry with me,” said the detective, sheepishly; he suddenly looked very young and John relented a little. “That you would accuse me of not having acted sooner; but I do hope that you’ll understand that if I had, I would have deprived the victims of their well-deserved revenge.”

“It can’t be Emma Clairmont you are referring to; such a sweet-looking girl, the very portrait of unblemished innocence.”

“Ah, my dear,” exclaimed the detective, “Like the poet wrote, ‘but that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead’. Innocence can’t last forever, not in this tainted world of ours.”

“We know so little of that poor girl,” complained the doctor, “If only we had met her, even for just a brief moment.”

“Oh, but we have, my dear.”

“What, when?” 

“Think on it, my darling, cast your mind back to what we have been told of Miss Clairmont: a young Ophelia so entranced by her part in a play that she changes the interpretation of a renowned tragedy to suit her convictions, a determined girl with a passionate nature, a friend whom she loves very dearly whose father lost everything on the gambling table. Yet one day, this very same girl starts believing in ghosts and in the afterlife, she takes to visiting graves, wishing for a resurrection of the dead, or worse, for the existence of revenants. Don’t you perceive any discrepancy?”

“Perhaps Lady Vere lied to us; maybe not intentionally, but because she had her reasons.”

“I believe she told us nothing but the truth.”

“Emma’s parents died; perhaps the shock changed her personality.”

“In this instance, perchance, it would have been better,” Sherlock replied, cryptically. “Alas, I suspect many of that young girl’s traits are set in stone and have led her to some very dark, perilous places.”

John was about to request further elucidations, when Lestrade burst in as if carried by an inauspicious wind.

“Your landlady let me in,” he said by way of apology, “Your boy has been kidnapped by Cooper.”

“What, when?” exclaimed John.

“The lad that was with him yesterday, the one with the peculiar eyes, he came to see us and said Robbie had been taken away by two men dressed as monks. I sent Craddock to Guy’s Hospital and apparently Cooper has not been seen there since yesterday. Before coming here, I went to St. Mary Axe, but only the servants were there. They said both Sir Astley and Lady Caroline are frequently absent, so they weren’t unduly worried.”

“Did you inspect the cottage?” asked the detective.

The Inspector grimaced.

“Yes, but it took some doing to obtain the keys. The butler insisted that no one is allowed in there, not even the maid. The place was in complete disarray and had been recently used; there were eloquent traces of bodily fluids, including blood. I checked the rest of the grounds and found a kennel; it was empty, but for a couple of mangy dogs. The walls are so thick you can’t hear a sound unless the trap door is open. Luckily, the key was in the same bunch as the one for the cottage. I set the poor creatures free and I wouldn’t want to be Sir Astley should they chance upon him, which I sincerely hope they will.”

“What did you do with Jules?” John enquired.

“He’s downstairs with your lad. I think we should check that loathsome theatre. As for the Holywell folly, one of my men is still there tidying up the place. I doubt Cooper would try something funny with the police present on the scene.”

“The game is nearly over,” murmured Sherlock; he removed a square of parchment paper from the pocket of his jacket and stared at it with darkened eyes.

“Do not bother going to Curtain Road, dear Lestrade; that building is nothing but the ruin of dream,” he said, bitterly.

“And what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to unravel the mystery and let me take care of the dead bodies? I’m a policeman not a sexton, dear fellow.”

“Tonight John and I will be communing with the ghosts,” Sherlock declared, with a wicked smile.

“You are jesting,” Lestrade said, shaking his head, “You know full well there’s no such thing as ghosts, and if they did exist they would not endanger the lives of beggar boys nor would they violate their innocence.”

“To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to exist in their names and predicament of chimeras, was large satisfaction unto old expectations, and made one part of their Elysiums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of true belief. To live indeed, is to be again ourselves,” Sherlock quoted, as the inspector gaped at him in disbelief.

“Is he always this infuriating?” he asked John, who was doing his utmost to contain his own displeasure. As a man of action, he detested the concept of idleness, especially when the life of a young boy was in peril.

“Today is not one of his most scintillating days,” he scowled. “He’s been testing my patience, talking in riddles and withholding information.”

The detective was stung by the reproach and his face registered his chagrin, first by turning sombre then by flushing a fetching shade of rose madder.

“You have been with me all along and have witnessed the same events yet you accuse me of deceit,” he chided. “My dear Inspector, I have made a promise to you and intend to keep it. In order to do that, I have to prepare for tonight’s entertainment. We shall see you tomorrow, when all will be revealed to your complete satisfaction,” he concluded, determined to have his way and knowing that he would succeed.

“Until tomorrow then,” Lestrade said, in a tired, exasperated tone. He made to scrub a hand through his hair only to encounter the obstacle of his hat; he muttered a blasphemy under his breath and left the room slamming the door on his way out.


	33. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be dark, so be prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The quote on Animal Magnetism and Mesmer is taken from "Wonders and mysteries of animal magnetism displayed; or the history, art, practice, and progress of that useful science, from its first rise in the city of Paris, to the present time. With several Curious Cases and new Anecdotes of the Principal Professors" Eighteenth Century Collections. London (1791)
> 
> Note 2: This is what Sherlock's mask looks like  
> 

_“As a new heaven is begun, and it is now thirty-three years since its advent, the Eternal Hell revives. And Io! Swedenborg is the Angel sitting at the tomb: his writings are the linen clothes folded up. Now is the dominion of Edom, and the return of Adam into Paradise”_

_The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (excerpt) – William Blake_

 

* * *

 

The hours had elapsed in a weird, uneven manner: at first, the day had seemed unassailable like a defended castle, the minutes vainly trying to erode the rock and divest it of its permanence; but once the initial resistance had been vanquished, the hours had evaporated and when the afternoon appeared it was enrobed of night.

Sherlock had spent the day cloistered inside his sanctum; he had ventured no further explanations, but for a vague mention of their disguises for the evening, which - he said- had already been acquired.

John had tried once more to commit to paper the vision of his near-death experience; he was convinced -  and besides the detective had confirmed as much - that part of the mystery’s solution had already been revealed to him, and that the logical portion of his mind had obscured the more intuitive one.

The Calantha he had dreamed of, that evanescent riddle of a woman, had very little to do with the slender Celliers boy who had donned her ensanguined garments: she had not been a sprite nor a youth, but a feminine version of the devil. These words suggested something to him, but much like the vision, their significance soon dissolved. He went downstairs to see Jules, in order to reassure him, but he was gone.

“There’s much work to do at Saffron Hill,” Corisande explained, while Billy sat down at her feet like a bewitched puppy. “He said they are collecting money to rebuild the place from scratch. Not that it will ever be enough,” she sighed, and Wiggins rubbed his cheek against the skirt of her cotton frock; almost unthinking, she reached out to pat his head, thus reinforcing the canine metaphor.

This odd picture of domesticity warmed John’s heart, even though he was deeply worried for Robbie and the other boys.

He refused to dwell on Emma Clairmont’s fate, since he chose to trust Sherlock and the detective seemed unconcerned. To be truthful, even her half-sister Lady Vere did not appear to be overly worried, he decided with a tinge of irritation; in her place, he would have informed the police, rather than merely confide in a private detective who was green in years and experience. John was madly in love with the young man and believed him capable of anything, but the only recommendation he held, in the eyes of their client, was the word of a fellow Cambridge alumnus; was that enough to relieve her of all preoccupations and convince her that she had done her utmost to save Emma? Or was it, like the detective had once hypothesised, that she did not care about the girl and only wanted to show the world that she had tried to find her? The more he thought of it, the fewer certainties he retained: not only did all the characters in their tale seem guilty, but even he and Sherlock were lacking: they should have interviewed Lady Vere’s publisher and her friends; they should have bullied solicitors and unearthed the secrets of the past. As fervently as he believed in Sherlock Holmes, John feared that his companion had relied too heavily on the workings of his mind and perchance underestimated the importance of the more mundane tasks.

He supped alone, weighed down by the depression that, together with a sluggishness of the blood, always overtook him when he was both agitated and inactive. He was about to pour his third glass of sherry when the detective swept in, and only his quick reflexes saved both bottle and beaker from imminent destruction.

 

Before Mary, John had lived of clandestine encounters in squalid alleys or at the back of second-rate theatres. Clients paid their entrance fees and as long as they did not get caught, they could take their pleasures in the shape and form of their choice. Once, in the midst of a somewhat unrewarding carnal encounter, he had been distracted by the performance on stage: Mozart’s Don Giovanni was being inacted and the entrance of The Commendatore had startled him and afforded him the thrills his lover had not been able to provide.

Sherlock’s features were hidden behind the famed full-face Bauta mask of Casanova, complete of damask Tricorn hat and gilt-embroidered points, while his body was enveloped by a ducal cloak in the same midnight-blue damask fabric. The finely-moulded papier-mâché of the Bauta had been painted glossy white and decorated with gold leaf swirls around the eyes and brow, and the pouty mouth was also painted gold.

“You look magnificent,” John croaked, and he would have ravished the young man, had he not been slightly intimidated.

“I purchased it in Venice last year,” explained the detective, after he’d removed the disguise. “I was there for a case.”

John touched the surface of the mask and wondered whether it was indeed perverted to be this aroused by what was essentially an inanimate object.

“I gather it meets with your approval,” the detective husked, fingering the collar of the cloak.

“Yes, you could say that,” John replied, glancing at the way the damask garment caressed his lover’s form. “I just hope it won’t be too much of a distraction. What about my costume?”

“In your bed chamber, on your bed,” whispered Sherlock, while he sipped the glass of sherry that his friend had neglected.

 

 

Upon seeing them, Billy winked and grinned, and had been able to speak he would have certainly ribbed his master about the hungry looks he was casting in his companion’s direction. John was entirely clad in heavy black silk and on his face he wore a black mask with gold-leaf overlay.

Heavily concealed Sherlock may have been, but his eyes still told their eloquent tale of love and jealousy.

Inside the cab, the atmosphere was thick with the peculiar fever of danger and eroticism; akin to flowers in spring, when potent life stirs and awakens, they were drenched in stimuli and burnt by the heat of the approaching battle.

They knew death was awaiting, but they did not want to cheat it; what they both coveted was a prolonged courtship and a tender yet firm rejection.

“Promise me one thing only,” John murmured. “That you will not think of yourself as invincible; remember what Smarra did to you that night.”

“I seem to recall that you did not protest overmuch.”

“I won't make love to you in front of a crowd, that's for sure,” the doctor quipped, but there was steel in his voice.

“I promise,” replied the detective, with a luscious sigh. “But you will have to offer me a worthy recompense.”

 “That will be my pleasure,” said John, clasping the young man’s hand in his.

 

When they reached Gore House, they found the front door open.

The servant who had let them in the previous time - the old man named Rivers - was not there to greet them. While on their former visit the house had  been insufficiently lit, it was now mostly in darkness, save for the sparse candles that directed their progress towards the grand salon.

When they reached that vast room, they found it empty of living creatures, but at centre of it sat a marvellous globe that was glowing with dazzling bands of light.

“The Aurora Globe,” exclaimed Sherlock, sounding awestruck. “I have never seen one quite so large,” he enthused.

“Rowena believes in its power to attract the spirits from the mid-world, where they linger awaiting for our summons.”

Christabel Light had walked in unperceived and now stood in front of them clad in a shimmery silver robe; her raven hair had been set free from pins and coils and seemed more alive than its owner, whose face was painted chalk white so that it seemed to be made of desiccated bones.

“You will forgive the lack of music,” she said, “This is not really a ball, but rather a... ceremony.”

“I gathered as much,” the detective replied.

“I suspect you might be wondering about the elaborate mise en scène,” the woman continued, “Your curiosity will be assuaged, I promise.”

“Some sort of elaborate ritual, certainly,” said John, and his host smiled briefly.

“Come, let me take you to my sister,” Miss Light said, and glided towards the heavy wooden double doors that opened to the side of the Japanned cabinet.

 

Up to then, John reflected later, the evening had been slightly anticlimactic: where he had expected sturm-und-drang, he’d been served the brand of quaintness that was part and parcel of a certain British milieu. The newfangled interest in spiritualism expressed by ladies of a certain class was hardly revolutionary and in terms of excitement, it hardly competed with the more lurid attractions of places such as the Rookery.

 Or so he had thought, until the posterns of hell had opened before them and swallowed them whole.

 

“That’s the woman,” John exclaimed, pointing at the lady dressed in crimson. She was sitting on a high-backed, throne-like chair and staring at the painting in front of her: a still life composed of rotten fruits invaded by worms.

He couldn’t hear Sherlock’s reply and when he turned, his lover had vanished.

“We meet again,” the lady said, in a pleasant voice, and she stood up and, light as air, walked towards him.

“What have you done with my friend?” he demanded, and turning away from him, she removed the gauze that covered her face.

“Mine eyes dazzle, she died young,” he quoted, at which the woman laughed; it wasn’t a pleasant sound; it was a rasping, guttural thing that could have been uttered by a dying animal or a broken instrument.

“Your friend knows too much already,” she replied; the smile in her voice was cutting like broken glass.

“We didn’t need the costumes, you know who we are,” he said; he was starting to feel constricted by the mask, beneath which his face was beaded with perspiration.

“But not what you may be,” she misquoted, and there was something in the way she said it that, at last, sparked the flame of intuition inside his clouded mind.

“Lady Caroline,” he exclaimed. “Why, we thought something horrible had happened to you!”

As if bitten by a vicious asp, the woman startled and hissed, but she turned towards him, her countenance was as placid as it had been upon their first meeting at St. Mary Axe.

“You were not deceived, my dear fellow, not one bit.”

“Lady Vere said you were a lively young girl,” he said, wanting to placate her spirits.

For an instant, something warm and tender softened her expression, but it was gone so quickly he thought he’d imagined it.

“I was a formless being fashioned out of fairy-tales and unfunded hopes.”

“What hopes?”

“I was led to believe that men were the balm that soothed our wounds and that life would spring eternal and bountiful,” she replied, her tone laden with sarcasm.

“What happened?”

“My father died,” Lady Cooper answered. “I had already lost my mother.”

“I’m very sorry,” he said, but his contrition was met by a venomous cackle.

“He was a scoundrel who lost all our money at cards. The only good thing about him was that he taught me about life in death.”

“How do you mean?” John asked, even though he was afraid of knowing the answer already.

“I caught him in the midst of devouring my mother’s heart,” she recounted, her eyes lost in her daydream, her head cocked to one side, “You should have seen her, my dear doctor: her flame-red hair spread out like a fan, her white face still wearing the bewildered countenance of one who trusted her assailant,” she recited, shaking her head. “I swore I would never see the face of a dying creature, unless it was heavily disguised.”

The significance of her words was clear, and the doctor’s hand went to the pocket of his breeches, where his pistol was a comforting presence.

“And I suppose you told your friend Emma Clairmont.”

“She thought I had invented a story, but she couldn’t be sure. I suggested she read Swedenborg and the poor thing must have believed I was left heart-broken by the death of my mother. Heart broken,” she repeated, and the words caused her to laugh hysterically.

“But why did you marry Cooper of all men?” he demanded, even as his mind was becoming hazy and his thoughts unfocussed.

“Oh, my dear man, haven’t you been listening? Death need not prevail unless we let it.”

“I don’t understand,” he babbled, and the world was melting before his eyes, as if it were made of clay and wax.

“He has my father’s heart and I have his liver,” she replied, and her curved red mouth was the last thing he saw before his lights went out.

 

“You don’t know how long we had to wait for someone like you two to appear,” Sir Astley voice was saying, “Didn’t we, my dear?”

John woke up with a throbbing pain in his head; he was lying supine atop a table, his arms and legs bound to it, his face still covered by the mask. Next to him, in the same exact situation, was Sherlock.

He imagined the question to have been directed at Lady Caroline or one of the nefarious sisters, but when the reply came, it nearly undid him.

“Indeed, Sir.”

Impossible, he thought, but before he could try ad raise his head to make sure, Sherlock quelled his doubts.

“What a lurid game you have been playing,” he hissed, “Pretending that you cared about those poor boys while you sent them to their death.”

Silver Robbie gave a throaty chuckle and his glorious, alien mane rose from the smoky background, like the moon slicing through the clouds.

“But I did care about them,” he crooned, his voice dripping with bitter honey, “I wanted them to be part of history. Dear Sir Astley will make sure of that.”

“Why did you ask for our help if you were his accomplice?” asked John.

The youth grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s curls and pulled hard, but the detective did not utter a sound.

“Would you like to explain it to him?” he spat out.

“We were the real experiment, the final problem, so to speak. Sir Astley was searching for a superior mind and a tenacious heart; they would be forever intertwined, one inside the other,” Sherlock replied, wryly.

“Yes,” said the surgeon, malevolently. “You didn’t really believe in that taradiddle about phrenology and the possibility of predicting human behaviour through the study of crania, did you?” he let out a sonorous laugh from deep inside his chest. “Or that I would be convinced by the paltry act of a cunning young man, whose main feature is unrestrained vanity? Are you really so conceited, my dear Sherlock, that you truly thought I was ensnared by your mediocre charms?”

It was a testament to John’s love for his husband-to-be that only in that moment did he feel that he could have plucked Cooper’s heart from his chest and fed it to the dogs.

“What was the purpose of all this silly deception, when you could have just abducted us and be done with it?” he asked.

“Very true, my dear, but you see my beloved wife has a passion for the stage and she would have been a magnificent actress, had she condescended to grace the world with her manifold talents. Besides, we loved to watch you two dance, didn’t we my dear?”  

Lady Caroline bent down to caress Sherlock’s throat; her pointed nails pressed down on the bare skin until blood spilled out.

“Yes,” she growled, licking the liquid off her fingers. “You were deliciously unpredictable, but always within the compass of our strategy. Inexorably, you fell into one another, and all the obstacles we created only deepened your bond.”

“You couldn’t possibly predict we would have met, let alone entertained a friendship.”

“No, you are right, we could not be sure,” the surgeon insisted, “But being a man of science, I relished experiments. You do understand, don’t you Mr Holmes? You thought I had not paid attention to you Doctor Watson, but I was just waiting to see whether your curiosity would be piqued by a snatcher trying to sell you a body. I wasn’t disappointed: you did precisely what I thought you would. I have to admit that luck played a large part in our scheme, but don’t they say that fortune favours the brave? What a marvellous setting for my darling Caroline’s boldest play!”

“But this is madness!” John shouted, at last. “You may devour another human being whole, but that wouldn’t alter your destiny or his, other to rob you of your sanity.”

“Another soul joins yours, in a marriage of heaven and hell,” recited Christabel’s voice, in the sing-song intonation of intoxicated evil.

“There is no heaven and there is no hell,” replied Sherlock, cold and clear. To John, the words felt like a soothing balm to a pulsating wound. Until his companion was untouched by fear or self-doubt, he would not succumb to despair. “And what links one being to another is unfathomable and intangible.”

“Not according to Mesmer,” intervened Rowena Light. John couldn’t see her clearly, but he could discern her hat, which was another frothy creation with a surfeit of veils floating around her, like sails in a breeze. “According to him, since all bodies abound with pores and the universe with fluid matter, said matter introduces itself through the interstices, flowing through one body by the currents which issue therefrom to another, as in a magnet. This fluid consists of fire, air and spirit, therefore it is easy to conceive how the efforts which the bodies make towards each other produce animal electricity, which in fact is no more than the effect produced between two bodies. But what attracts one particular body to another must be the soul; thus we may be able to prove Swedenborg’s theories that the soul is the admixture of that all-pervasive fluid and the organs it permeates and conjoins.”

“You shall decide who will breathe and who will live in death,” declared Lady Caroline, solemnly; then she kissed John’s hand and, plucking the pistol from his pocket, she pressed the muzzle against the back of Sherlock’s head.

 


	34. Nothing Will Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma Clairmont, at last.
> 
> There will be one more chapter filled to the brim with love and sex, as this was already way too long. :)
> 
> Thanks to all of you who stuck with the story: I could not have done it without your kind and lovely words of support. I love you guys!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I forgot to explain that the play allegedly written by Emma is in fact my way to pay homage to Lady Caroline Lamb whose novel Glenarvon introduced the characters of Lord Ruthven (inspired by her lover, Lord Byron) and Calantha (Caroline herself). Lord Ruthven became the protagonist of John Polidori's The Vampyre, which kick-started the vampire literary trope. Both Lady Caroline and Polidori were prompted by their love/hatred for Lord Byron. It's also worth mentioning that Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein while Polidori penned The Vampyre. She was still a teenager at the time.

_“The world was never made_  
_It will change, but it will not fade_  
_So let the wind range_  
_For even and morn_  
_Ever will be_  
_Thro’ eternity._  
_Nothing was born_  
_Nothing will die_  
_All things will change”_

_Nothing Will Die (excerpt) – Alfred Lord Tennyson_

 

* * *

 

The room was filled with the sickening reek of incense; the smoke was rendering John dizzy and nauseous. Besides, he was certain that the Aurora Globe had emanated some nefarious gas, which had produced his first hallucinatory meeting with Lady Caroline.

One thing bothered him, aside from the obvious predicament of having to die in order to save Sherlock; because naturally, there had  never been a doubt in his mind that he would be the one to make the sacrifice. But before he died, he would dearly love to know what had happened to Emma Clairmont and why his partner had not envisaged the eventuality that had just befallen them.

“What of Miss Clairmont?” he thus asked of that disparate and mostly murderous congregation.

What he had not expected was Lady Cooper’s virulent reaction.

“Leave her name out of this,” the woman shouted, “There’s innocence of a magnitude that shouldn’t be unsullied by mortal lips.”

“Is she dead?” he asked, unable to quell the tremor in his voice.

“She’s very much alive,” replied the detective, “ _I but deceiv'd your eyes with antic gesture, when one news straight came huddling on another Of death ! and death ! and death ! still I danced forward; but it struck home, and here, and in an instant,_ ” he quoted, defiance exuding from every syllable.

“It can’t be,” Lady Caroline insisted, and her claw-like fingers closed around the detective’s throat. “I went to that wretched theatre and that foolish Conquest man didn’t even know what I was talking about.”

“I expected you to pay a visit to the Standard,” the young man croaked, at which she laughed bitterly.

“And fall into your trap? I’m not that naïve.”

“And yet you were foolish enough to play theatrical impresario.”

“An intruder had discovered our little hiding place,” replied Sir Astley, who clearly still resented that insolent intrusion.

“You could have just chosen another place,” the doctor suggested.

“We could and we did,” said the surgeon’s wife, gazing intently at Christabel. Miss Light’s eyes were overflowing with adoration and a manic craving that John understood only too well.

“But,” she continued, sighing in real distress, “I had always wanted to stage that play, and I couldn’t resist the temptation. Alas, it was not to be.”

“Emma wrote that version for you, didn’t she?” asked the detective, silkily. “She remembered how much you had loved the character of Calantha in The Broken Heart and when she learnt of you interest for Swedenborg and revenants, she decided to put the two together and create something that she imagined would give you infinite pleasure. The dastardly Lord Ruthven was inspired by your father; she did not know him well, but as a highly sensitive girl, she must have perceived what you felt for him. By the by, you influenced her to the point that for a while she believed of having been the cause of her mother and stepfather’s deaths.”

“Shouldn’t we proceed with the ritual?” intervened Rowena, her bobbing hat and fluttering veils indicating her growing impatience.

“And then she saw you at the Adelphi,” continued Sherlock, his voice thickened by the smoke. “You went to see a production of The Duchess of Malfi, in which Samuel Stirling played Julia, the scorned lover who is killed by a poisoned Bible. You have a predilection for the incestuous, violent nature of Jacobean drama and that young actor must have caught your fancy.”

“He reminded me of her,” Caroline replied, softly. “The same golden hair and blue eyes; when I talked to him, the illusion was immediately shattered, but he was a willing subject,” she concluded, in a scornful tone.

“Indeed he was,” agreed Robbie, “And if it hadn’t been for that interfering idiot, I would have had my way with him.”

Celliers, John thought. How horribly wrong they had been! They had come upon the scene assuming that the actor was assaulting Silver Robbie, while he was merely trying to save Stirling from death and defilement.

“Was it Stirling who poisoned the gin?” he asked.

“The eager pup,” commented Cooper, “He wanted to show his willingness and gain our respect and generosity. He was greedy for money and success,” the surgeon concluded, shaking his head. “In the end, he ruined his prospects for good.”

“He was living proof that untruthful and impatient natures only serve to dilute and invalid the experiment,” concurred Rowena.

“And what do you do with these unworthy subjects?” enquired John, who was starting to see double.

“My dear doctor,” sneered Cooper, “Let’s not forget that I, unlike your poor self, have a career to protect and a place in society that I don’t wish to relinquish. This means furthering the cause of science, for whose benefit a surfeit of cadavers is required. Animals and humans are all the same to me: flesh that can be put to work for the attainment of the greater good.”

“But some have managed to escape your clutches,” the blond man insisted, wanting to needle him. “Jack Trueby may have died, but you did not get your hands on him.”

“Sultan was a dope fiend,” Robbie spat out, “And that scoundrel Brookes did not dose him properly.”

“Brookes was another of your brilliant creations,” said Sherlock, “You took a weak, undeveloped youth and turned into Frankenstein’s monster.”

Christabel Light cackled and her painted mouth looked like a gash across her death-mask visage.

“He was a depraved idiot,” she said, contemptuously. “He purchased his drugs with the money he made by stealing and selling his uncle’s specimens. He didn’t need convincing; he practically fell in our lap. He proved useful at times, such as when an inconvenient witness needed silencing.”

“Tom Trader was an innocent boy,” said John, “And what you did to him was beyond criminal.”

“You are the one to talk, Doctor,” Robbie quipped, “After all, you don’t seem to disdain the violation of a virgin body.”

In all John’s life, including his stint on the Gold Coast, never had he wished to kill somebody as he wanted to throttle that evil youth.

Sherlock turned towards him and blinked slowly, or at least that’s what he thought he saw; he could no longer be certain, not with all that smoke and the malaise it induced in him.

“There’s one factor you have failed to account for,” the detective rasped, “Like my annoying sibling frequently says, there’s always a woman in the picture; a woman who, like Lady Macbeth, may be the undoing of an entire kingdom; a woman who would not, who could not allow anyone else to play the part she had written for you, Lady Caroline, when she loved you above all else in the world.”

“I did love you and I believed you loved me,” a melodious voice said. John raised his head and turned it towards the source of those words and saw the urchin-like countenance of David Celliers suddenly transformed into the girl he’d only ever seen portrayed in a painting.

“Miss Clairmont!” he exclaimed, “How did I not see that?”

“My darling,” replied Sherlock, “You did see, but you failed to observe.”

 “Emma,” whispered Lady Caroline. “Is that really you?”

The girl’s hair had been cut short and she had the appearance of a Greuze page, clad as she was in claret-coloured breeches and doublet. It occurred to John that some of the smoke had dissipated, surely thanks to Miss Clairmont’s arrival. He also noticed that Sherlock was eyeing John’s pistol, which Lady Cooper had set down on the table on which he was lying.

Suddenly, Lady Caroline gave a sharp cry and fell in Emma’s arms, but the girl pushed her away.

“Caroline Glenarvon,” she murmured. “I did love you once. I loved you for such a long time that I quite neglected everything that didn’t pertain to you. I forgot how to be whole; there was always something missing: the joy had gone out of my life; you had taken it away with you. When I was finally allowed to look for you, they told me you had married and had come to London. And then one night, I saw you at the theatre and I overheard your conversation with Stirling; the promises you made him, the excitement in you voice. My play, I exulted, you had not forgotten me! Surely that was a coded message just for me, I dreamed, stupid girl that I was!”

“No, my darling, no,” Caroline pleaded, her features disrobed of all their malignity and rapidly regaining the earnestness of true sentiment. “I did mean it as a message. And I came to look for you, but I did not dare… hope.”

Emma let out a brittle laugh. “You duped me, all those years ago. You wanted to make me a simulacrum of your cruelty, forcing me to feel all the emotions you were unable to experience for real; you acted them out at me and I was too blind to perceive where the deception ended and the real Caroline began.”

“We could still,” the red-haired woman begged, caressing the girl's golden helmet of hair.

Miss Clairmont flinched and her heart-shaped mouth curved in distaste.

“No, we could not! I have _seen_ what you did to those poor boys, how you would have burnt them alive for a minute’s pleasure; how you’ve destroyed the livelihoods of scores of people without the least remorse…”

Lady Cooper reached out to grasp at the girl’s hand, and for once, she succeeded.

“Don’t desert me, dearest Emma,” she implored. “We can go back to the faraway land of the past, you and I. All things change as it’s in their nature, and what is broken can be repaired. I love you,” she added, moving a step closer to the object of her desire.

 

What happened afterwords was worthy of the bloodiest Jacobean revenge tragedy.

The very moment Lady Caroline pronounced those three words, Christabel Light, like a savage beast, threw herself at Emma; in her hand was a scalpel, with which she intended to cut the girl’s throat. Desperately, they fought for a long while, with Caroline trying to come between them.

“It will not do, my dear, it will not do,” the latter repeated, and the truth of her protestations must have somehow percolated into her paramour’s distorted mind, for suddenly Christabel stopped, and akin to a figure in Japanese theatre, she directed the blade at herself, cutting a red line across her neck.

Rowena, who up to that moment had been waiting to commune with her beloved ghosts, screamed and her white, ageless face emerged from the carapace of her attire, distorted by pain and anger. Quicker than lightning, she gripped John’s pistol in both hands and shot blindly in Emma’s direction. The commotion thus provoked served as a providential distraction, and when the swarm of boys appeared, as if rising out of every dark corner, it was already too late to stop them.

Sir Astley, who had been a gleeful spectator in the drama, was taken prisoner by Jules, who delighted in threatening the surgeon with a broad butcher’s knife.

As soon as he saw the friends he had betrayed, Robbie tried to run away, but was blocked by Billy Wiggins, whose manly hands curled into fists and knocked the older boy out, under the approving gaze of a vengeful-eyed Corisande. Someone cut John and Sherlock free; they removed their disguises and ran to where Rowena stooped over her dead sister, who lay in a pool of blood.

What she had not seen was that her efforts had not been in vain: one of the bullets had caught Lady Caroline and, almost invisible in her crimson dress, a flower of blood was blooming, sopping the fabric in perfect imitation of Calantha’s stage demise.

Emma Clairmont stared down at her, like a clear-eyed Pallas Athena.

“Perchance we truly have two souls, like it’s said in Smarra, and may the one soul that is devoid of blemish grant you a peaceful rest,” she prayed, and bent down to kiss the cooling brow of what once had been Caroline Glenarvon, an indomitable spirit that might have conquered the world.

John recovered his pistol and strode to where Sir Astley was tightly bound to one of the mock-Greek columns.

“You did not even bother to protect your wife,” he snarled.

“What is life if not a succession of experiments?” the surgeon replied, haughtily. “You don’t really believe that Sherlock- that magnificent youth - loves you, do you?” he cackled. “You are only another one of his specimens, and he would have eaten your heart with jubilation. Despite what he might say to the contrary, Sherlock Holmes prizes his mind above everything, certainly above you.”

Before John could suppress the maelstrom surging inside his chest, a hand robbed him of his weapon.

“Is he the one who caused Sultan’s death?”

“That squalid tart wasn’t worth…” Sir Astley could never finish his sentence, as Jules shot him twice in the neck, almost decapitating him.

As the doctor regained his breath, he felt the comforting presence of his lover by his side.

“I did mention once that my methods for acquiring a skull would not be predictable,” the detective whispered in his friend’s ear.

When Lestrade and his men irrupted into Gore House and surveyed the carnage, they found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in masquerade garb be-spattered with blood, laughing madly, on the verge of tears.

 

Lady Vere contemplated her half-sister’s gamine form with delighted affection.

“This style suits you,” she said, “You remind me of Viola in Twelfth Night, when she dresses like her brother Sebastian.”

“Come away death, and in sad cypress let me be laid,” intoned Emma, tunefully. “Very apt, I’m sure,” she agreed, smiling at her sibling.  
Her voice did not match the portrait of that lovely innocent girl, John mused, but it went perfectly with the stronger creature Miss Clairmont had become.

They were all sitting in Lady Vere’s drawing room, drinking sherry to celebrate, regardless of the fact that it was barely noon. The two men had spent the best part of the night at the Covent Garden Police station, while Emma took care of the boys, assuring Jules that he would not be charged of murder as Rowena - overcome by the madness of grief - had taken the guilt upon herself.

“You were not entirely honest with us,” chided Sherlock and Lady Helen had the good grace of blushing.

“Emma is all the family I have left,” she explained, beaming at the girl, “And I’ve always wanted her to have everything she desired. I have my humble talents, but she was always the dazzling one. You do encounter that sometimes with brothers or sisters: one may be intelligent and gain a measure of success, but the other is like a bright star, illuminating everything in its wake.”

John thought of how perfectly the example applied to Sherlock and Mycroft and nodded; when he gazed at his lover, the young man bit his lips, and hadn’t they been in their client’s abode, he would have taken possession of that enticing mouth.

“You knew that she had not truly disappeared, not in the real sense of the word and that it is why you did not inform the police,” the detective said, somewhat sternly.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you or Doctor Watson,” the woman replied, “But rather that I didn't really know what part of my surmises corresponded to the truth and I was afraid that you might ruin Emma’s designs, whatever they might be. The only time I was really scared was when you showed me her shawl.”

“I gave all the clothes I was wearing to a beggar girl,” Emma explained, “I knew she would have more use for them than I did.”

“Where did you live?” asked the doctor.

“Here and there,” she replied, “I slept at the Shakespeare Theatre for a while, until I deemed it was no longer safe.”

“You left that French book.”

“Smarra, yes,” she said, and closed her eyes, “I was hoping Caroline would find it and that it would remind her of the past.”

“Why did you not approach her and tell her,” John enquired, but she stopped him mid-sentence.

“What would I tell her? That I knew she was embroiled in a despicable, horrific scheme? But don’t you see my dear man? She was a woman of two souls and if you had met her in her daily life, she would have appeared to you as the meekest of creatures.”

John recalled that enervated nymph who had reminded him of the Lady of Shalott and couldn’t but concur with Miss Clairmont’s statement.

“They all led double, if not triple, lives and only by catching them in the act, could we bring them to justice,” declared Sherlock.

“I believed our time had come when I found out about The Vampyre,” Emma said, “But alas, I was deceived. She never set foot in that theatre, not while I was there as David Celliers.”

“She came to ask for you, but naturally Conquest didn’t know that it had been Sherlock who had placed the Broken Heart’s quote in the Standard.”

“I always suspected that if was you who had written that version of the play. Colburn, my editor, has always refused to divulge the name of the author,” Lady Vere said, with a touch of irritation.

Sherlock cast an eloquent ' _What did I tell you?'_ look in his companion’s direction and John wanted to kiss him even harder.

“I’m not half the writer that you are, my darling Helen, but I wanted her to know that she lived within my memory, that to the world she would always be the splendid Calantha who fought death and emerged victorious, even as she was steeped in blood and rotten to the core.”

Lady Vere held her sister close and kissed her smooth cheek.

“And you fulfilled your mission to the letter, my love; regardless of what Caroline has done and what she had become, your love has made her immortal. That’s what art does, my sweet: it defies the passing of time and the vagaries of fashion, and creates an enduring testament of truth and beauty.”

They all sat in silence for a while, basking in the simple pleasure of being alive, of breathing and feeling.

“What are your plans now?” asked John, when he finally dared to interrupt that state of grace.

Emma smiled puckishly.

“Oh, I am part of the gang now. I think I may even get a tattoo done on my hand,” she jested. “I have money, plenty of it, and I intend to spend quite a lot of it rebuilding Saffron Hill. Only this time, it will have clean running water and proper sewage pipes and all the rest of it.”

“Those boys may not want to lead a respectable life,” warned the detective, and the girl laughed heartily.

“I don’t wish to force them into anything. Lord knows my life was made miserable enough by someone who tried to make me into someone I was not,” she replied, referring to Baron Clairmont. “They can keep drinking and stealing to their hearts’ content; I merely wish them to have a safe harbour they can come back to, when the nights are cold and solitary. Besides, Corisande offered to help,” she said, winking.

“Wiggins won’t like that one bit,” said John, grinning; he turned to look at Sherlock and was submerged by such a tide of affection that he wanted to cry.


	35. A Paradise of Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> Thank you all for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed the story and that it made your life a little bit brighter and happier.
> 
> Thanks from the bottom of my heart!

_“Love means setting aside walls, fences, and unlocking doors and saying 'Yes.' One can be in paradise by simply saying 'yes' to this moment.”_

_Divine Love and Wisdom (excerpt) - Emanuel Swedenborg_

 

* * *

 

After leaving Emma in the loving company of Lady Vere, John had convinced Sherlock to return to Baker Street, where they had washed and fed before surrendering to a long, quasi-comatose slumber. The doctor had also warned Mrs Hudson against allowing any visitors into their lodgings for the remainder of the day, and for once the detective had not protested.

The evening came and saw them in the drawing room, sitting on the rug by the fire. Neither had bothered to dress; they had carried a blanket each and wrapped it around their shoulders like mantles.

John was seeing a new version of Sherlock, the creature who emerged victorious from a deadly case: the young man was unexpectedly soft and pliant, as tender as a spring bud.

“When did you first know about Miss Clairmont?” he asked, gathering his lover’s naked body close to his side and caressing the elegant slope of his back.

The detective let his head fall on his friend’s shoulder and stared into the fire.

“I must admit that it took me awhile,” he replied, brushing his cheek against John’s clavicle. “When we met Celliers for the first time, I’m ashamed to say that I did not pay him any mind. It was only when I reflected on the name of the character he played and read the script that I started to see the light. I always suspected Lady Vere was not being completely honest yet I didn’t doubt the sincerity of what she had deigned to reveal to us. The fact she loved Emma was as clear as day, therefore the course she had decided to follow had to be a way of protecting her sibling rather than harming her. I blame her artistic nature; had she been of a more prosaic bent, she might have been less reticent.”

John felt Sherlock’s smile on his skin.

“What are you insinuating, my love?” he jested. “I’ll have you know that my journal contains no flights of fancy, but only a dry retelling of events and conversations.”

This time, the detective’s reaction was audible; he laughed merrily; a deep, rich sound that shook his delicate frame.

“You could never be _dry_ , my darling, despite your most valiant attempts,” he gasped. “I suspect that narrative to be filled to the brim with praise and admiration for your companion.”

“Conceited cub,” the doctor replied, tugging lightly at his lover’s curls. “But I can’t deny that your bewitchery has informed my prose.”

“Bewitchery?” the young man repeated in an amused tone then he continued, more seriously, “Regarding what Cooper said, I’d never, I’d have chosen to die…”

“Hush,” John murmured, pressing the pad of his thumb on the boy’s lower lip. “I never believed it, not for a moment. I confess that his evil words stirred up my blood, but only because he dared utter them in the first place. He wasn’t worthy of calling your name, let alone besmirching your character.”

He kissed the spot where his finger had been and his lover sighed contentedly.

A moment of quiet ensued, but it was soon followed by a tenser silence.

When Sherlock’s next words came, his companion was not wholly unprepared to receive them.

“Robbie made an accusation which is completely unfunded, I know,” he whispered.

“But you have wondered about it all the same,” the doctor concluded, feeling the minute nod of his lover’s head, the tip of his nose nuzzling at the side of John’s neck.

He didn’t want to repeat what he’d already said in the past, nor did he just want to reassure Sherlock by stating that, after all, they were going to be married and that should have been the definitive proof of his devotion; in the end, he decided that he would have to speak clearly and forcefully.

“The first time I touched you,” he said, and smiled as he felt the young man shiver and cuddle even closer, “That was the most blissful moment of my life, or so I told myself. But then I slept by your side and it felt even better. The essence of you is a constant source of joy and pleasure to me. Your virginity was never a mere carnal device; it is at the very core of your nature. You renew the world for me; when I look at it through your enchanting eyes, it is transfigured, turned from drab to flamboyant. I was a tired, dejected man before I met you, my love; and now I feel like I could conquer the earth.”

Those opal eyes were staring at him, wide and bright.

“I did say from the very start that you were a poet,” Sherlock rasped, his voice streaked with tears.

“What can I say? You inspire me,” John replied, and kissed his fiancé’s mouth in what he hoped was a thorough, eloquent manner. It was, however, a tender embrace, as he had planned a leisurely seduction, and besides there were still questions that needed answering. He decided to start with what he deemed was the most pressing one.

“Did you know about Sir Astley’s real intentions when you went to see him?”

“Not as such, no,” the detective replied, biting his lips, “I knew something was askew when he immediately acquiesced to my requests; I’m not as vain as he believed. His marriage to Lady Caroline was the most telling clue: a man of his ilk would not have remarried had he not been compelled by gain or passion; either seemed impossible, but although I could be certain that the former Miss Glenarvon had not been rich, I could not be as sure about the feelings she might have aroused in him. His driving force was ambition; even his lust for young boys was only a cover for his experimental activities. Thus, I reasoned, the bond between them had to be stronger than we envisaged and of a darker nature.”

“And what of Robbie?” the doctor asked, grimacing.

“I have always suspected that he was hiding something; he claimed of being desperate for Sultan’s death but he did not claim his body, not until we were involved in the affair.”

“A certain detective once told me he wouldn’t care for _a lump of non-sentient flesh_ , if I remember correctly.”

“He must have been a fool,” the young man said, grinning broadly.

“Never a fool, but perchance just a solitary soul,” John replied, caressing a flushed cheek. “Not anymore,” he then whispered, and embraced him anew.

“Don’t think that I kept you in the dark out of perversity,” Sherlock said, when he emerged from the kiss, slightly breathless. “I couldn’t quite discern the pattern, even if I mistrusted most, if not all, the dramatis personae. My bitterest regrets are the deaths of Trader and Conquest, and obviously, your terrible ordeal.”

“Tom’s death warrant was signed the moment he came to us.”

“Yes,” the detective concurred, closing his eyes to erase the memory of that dreadful night at Brookes’ Museum. “They did not like it when their victims strayed from their prescribed path. Robbie had instructed the Forty Thieves to always go to him with their grievances, but he had not considered the nature of some of these boys. Tom Trader was a shrewd lad.”

“I’m glad Brookes is dead,” John stated, firmly. “I can’t forgive him for what he did to that poor boy.”

“Rowland Brookes was a dope fiend and a lost cause,” Sherlock said, wincing as he recalled his own – thankfully brief – dalliance with laudanum.

“My dear, you would never stoop to such abysmal levels,” the blond man replied, “You would hurt yourself, but not another living creature, of this I’m convinced.”

“You trust me, even after my vainglory nearly killed you.”

“Not even the brilliant Sherlock Holmes could have imagined that Samuel Stirling would lose his mind in such spectacular fashion.”

The detective sighed, and sitting on his haunches and plucking the fire poker from its brass stand, he proceeded to stir the coals with great violence.

“I should have paid more attention to his inane chattering, but I was more interested in Calantha and her role in the play than I was in a silly actor and his ambitions to be presented at court.”

“And could it be that you were also a touch jealous?” John suggested; he rose up to his knees and started to massage his lover’s tense shoulders.

“He was all over you.”

“I was his chosen victim,” the older man realised, shuddering. “But then he was told to keep away from us, and he decided to take Conquest instead. When his plan failed, he turned to Whackett. Although, I’m not quite sure I comprehend the events of that day.”

The detective let go of the poker and emitted a sultry moan, as his lover worked and kneaded Sherlock's aching muscles.

“Robbie, Whackett and Crompton set fire to Saffron Hill. Their intent was,among other things, to force us to go after them, but we would have searched in vain for Robbie. He knew the gang would never give him up for lost, and when they’d have gone to Holywell Mount, they would have met with frightful torture and death. Robbie went to the Theatre to talk to Stirling, but found Emma instead; as for Stirling, he must have discovered what the Coopers' real plans were – remember how curious he was – and decided to go to the folly, where the ‘sacrifices’ usually happened. The book of rituals was there and in his unhinged state, he must have considered it as a sign. The rest you can imagine for yourself.”

John’s hands were leaving a trail of fire along Sherlock’s heated skin, but he pretended to resist their lure.

“Jules knew about Robbie,” exclaimed the doctor, in what was a sudden revelation.

“He’s older and wiser than the others,” the detective confirmed. “He must have perceived his duplicitous behaviours. We only met Robbie occasionally, but Jules lived in the same quarters. It’s harder to deceive those who share our daily life.”

A finger suddenly dipped into his cleft and unerringly found his entrance; it didn’t press in, but circled his furled rim with deliberate slowness.

“Maybe I should… the wash-room,” he muttered, but John ignored his objections, “I don’t mind your muskiness,” he said, and lapped at his lover’s loins, as far as he could reach in that uncomfortable position. “Mm,” he hummed, as if he’d just tasted a succulent dish.

“The conclusion of this matter,” he husked, as his finger kept working at Sherlock’s ring, “Can be thus summarized: you understood that a game was being played and you let it unfold, risking both our lives, and the boys’ safety, in the process.”

“I… didn’t…” the young man stuttered, rocking his hips, and John chose that moment to shove his digit fully inside, with calculated brutality. The detective keened loudly and made to get up on his knees to give his lover better access, but instead received a rough slap on his buttock. “Do not move unless I tell you to,” commanded the older man. “Lean over on your elbows; here, let me,” he continued, as he helped a dazed Sherlock into the desired position.

 

There were flames leaping up behind the fire-grate and shadows dancing on the walls, but Sherlock could not see them; not when John was licking the salt from his skin and suckling at his core, stabbing at it with his tongue and fingers.

He tried to concentrate on not moving, but his muscles were not in tune with his mind; he shook and bucked, and every time his lover would smack him harder. His heart boomed in his ears, the rush of blood so potent it resembled a cascade of water.

When he was certain he was close to losing his senses, John entered him with one perfectly vicious thrust. The ache of it was exquisite, and so was the sensation of fullness: there was nothing remotely like it, that delicious invasion was like an internalised scream that transmuted pain into sublime pleasure.

John had a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips and was pulling him close as he was driving into his tight entrance, again and again, sinking down to the very hilt, grunting and growling like a beast in heat.

“Oh, please, please,” the young man begged, sweat pouring down his face, and he was being forced upright and onto John’s lap, where he sat on a throne of bliss.

“You are so beautiful,” the doctor was murmuring, pushing inside Sherlock, all the while stroking his erection with both hands. “My love,” he chanted, squeezing the drenched glans, masturbating it with its foreskin; he licked up the boy’s neck, broad swipes of tongue that evinced a mirror effect from the detective: he needed to lick and suck, to taste salt and the musk of sex. He parted his lips to speak, but John had understood: swiftly, he stuck three fingers inside his mouth, while at the same time rubbing at the slit of his lover’s prick and plunging even deeper into his bowels.

With a muffled cry, the young man came to his climax, juddering wildly like a drunken ship. He felt the warmth of John’s release and not for the first time, he wished it could remain there, like a genie inside its bottle.

 

* * *

_Six months later_

_July 1831_

“If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go. Farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.”

Emma Clairmont's Hamlet, in a ruffled black blouse and black breeches, stalked after his Ophelia, a chastely attired Corisande, all white muslin and timid eyes.

“Heavenly powers, restore him!” she sobbed.

“I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God has given you one face and you make yourselves another. You jig and amble, and you lisp, you nickname God’s creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on ’t. It hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go,”

At that, John Watson, seated in the front row of the newly opened Ditch Theatre, looked down to where his hand was holding his husband’s be-ringed one. He and Sherlock exchanged a tender smile, which was intercepted by the ever attentive eyes of The Strand’s owner and editor, Mr Victor Trevor.

He was sitting amongst the audience next to his wife, a black-haired young woman who possessed all the grace and composure of a Luini Madonna;  he cast his mind back to the strange murder case of Sir Astley and Lady Caroline Cooper; the story had been retold by John Watson in a tale that he had entitled “All things will die, Nothing will die” and whose exclusive publishing rights had been generously bestowed on Mr Trevor. Its widespread success had given the journalist the notoriety he sought and allowed him to purchase his own paper. That had been the start of their collaboration, which had proven both fruitful and enjoyable, cemented by reciprocal respect and a growing friendship. Although he did not relish spending an evening at the theatre, he could not miss the first night of Miss Clairmont’s production of Hamlet; besides, the novelty of casting a woman in that famous role would be surely a point of great interest to his readers, and there was nothing Mr Trevor wouldn’t do to please his beloved public.

 

“They were marvellous,” John enthused, as they left the theatre after having congratulated the cast and crew, which, aside from Billy and Corisande, included most of the Saffron Hill boys.

The relationship between Wiggins, Corisande and Emma was not quite clear to the couple at Baker Street, but it appeared to be working to the satisfaction of those involved, and that was surely all that mattered.

Billy had found immense pleasure in helping with the construction and management of the Ditch and its surrounding buildings. The Forty Thieves were all employed in the project, together with those who had been made homeless by the fire.

“I’ve never quite liked Hamlet,” replied Sherlock, “Like the lady in the play, he doth protest too much.”

“Maybe you are right,” concurred his husband, “But after all, he’s a genius and they always need an audience. Was that your skull she was holding?”

“Christabel Light’s to be accurate,” said the detective, “I thought it appropriate.”

“Yes, I see how you would think that,” the doctor observed, smiling broadly.

They turned into a dark alley and approached the tavern that once had been the Old Red Lion. In that liquid darkness, redolent of the lusty promises of summer, Sherlock had suddenly disappeared.

“Damnation,” exclaimed the doctor, not without a thrill of excitement. He remembered where the side entrance had been and found its twin; inside, on the floor, was a candle which had surely been lighted for the occasion. He went down a stone staircase into a replica of the rabbit warren of yore; he took a few wrong turns and cursed at his husband’s twisted penchant for drama, but then he came across a painted silk screen; behind it, on a low, oriental bed, lay Sherlock, stark naked but for his polished boots and the Casanova mask on his face.

John didn’t say a word; he disrobed, walked over to the bed and without further ado, swallowed the young man’s erection down, making him scream.

“Is this where you want to spend our honeymoon?” he asked some time later, kissing Sherlock’s now unmasked face.

The young man made a valiant attempt at rolling his eyes, but he was too exhausted.

“A safe port in a storm,” he replied, allowing John to stroke his curls, “A refuge, for when Baker Street is unsafe and we’ll need to hide.”

“I thought you loved danger,” exclaimed the doctor.

“I don’t want to imperil my husband’s life,” Sherlock declared, with a proud look in his bright eyes. John kissed him on the lips and as it always happened, that swiftly devolved into a passionate embrace. When he pulled away, panting a little, he asked:

“Is there a new case?”

Sherlock pouted, perplexed at how easily his husband could see through his stratagems.

“Lestrade may have mentioned that a woman was found dead in a ramshackle hut in Hackney,” he conceded, frowning.

 “Plenty of dead women in Hackney,” replied the blond man, feigning indifference.

“But she was wearing a diamond necklace,” said the detective, “Real diamonds,” he explained, and his displeasure was entirely forgotten.

“I shall call it ‘The Diamond in the Rough',” John quipped.

 Sherlock bridled and groaned, but in that very moment he knew that he was the happiest and luckiest man in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Your kudos and comments are invaluable to me!!!!


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